Tales of a Dark Continent
by Morthoron
Summary: The untold history of the Far-east of Middle-earth as told by the great chronicler of the 4th Age, Greagoir the Scribe, whose life & love is inextricably wound with the shadowy lore of the East. 2009 MEFA AWARDS, 2ND PLACE, DRAMA/GENERAL.
1. Chapter 1

TALES OF A DARK CONTINENT

**TALES OF A DARK CONTINENT**

**A Speculative Novel on the Far East of Middle-Earth**

**Based on the Writings of J.R.R. Tolkien**

**This is a not-for-profit endeavor**

**PROLOGUE: **_**An Eye to the East**_

I have a tale to tell, If you would care to hear it. Much of it may seem strangely familiar: a fireside yarn that once lulled you to youthful sleep, yet lingered on in drowsing snatches to mingle with the very stuff of dreams; or of half-read passages, long faded to forgetful obscurity that come suddenly to mind with the stark clarity of a memory vividly recalled (the unexpected guest who arrives unbidden but welcome at the oddest hour). Perhaps you are merely seeing a reflection, mirrored as through a glass darkly, perceiving the obverse truth of what you have long taken as fact. In any case, and if you are so inclined, I shall recount the hidden truths of the rise and fall of realms to the very east of East and to the uttermost South, far from the haunted eaves of Rhovanion, and further still from the reunited Dunedain kingdoms that first rose in ancient times along the silent shores of the Sundering Sea.

Let us journey hence, a thousand leagues eastward or more, to where the names of Numenor and its scion, Gondor, were once fables told by wild rovers lusting for the riches of ages, or by madmen intent on the acquisition of ultimate power. We shall pass over the Orocarni Mountains, the red ramparts of the East, to kingdoms both great and small, where few men of the west have ever trod; then south to the great continent of Mu, where the stars are strange and lost civilizations thrive in forest impenetrable. It is for these realms, unknown or forgotten in the chronicles of Gondor, yet rich in history and portent, that I offer my frail voice and humble talent.

It seems the Men of the West have told our tale as if through a funnel or leaky sieve, clogged with the mire of ages. They do not behold the subtle shades and vibrant hues of an intricately woven tapestry of time. Wearing prideful blinders, the Loremasters of Gondor have seen no more than that which touches them directly; therefore, they have only recorded the barbarous names of those -- like the vile Balchoth or the Wainriders -- who dared assail the adamantine ramparts of the West. Thus, in Gondor the word 'Easterling' is a curse spat out like spoilt milk. The witless fools! Learning is lost on the educated! The history of the West is written with a dead hand, for those who conserve the lore have never traveled hence to seek a better understanding of the lore.

Certainly, the story of the East was ever tainted by the black stain of evil, but then cannot the same be said for the lands of the West? In every age, one Dark Lord, then the next, has vied for utter domination. These Dark Lords -- wily and conspiratorial and utterly corrupt -- found easy marks in the many tribes of warlike nomads eking out a meager existence along the marches of greater eastern realms. The Lords of Deceit came among the ignorant folk in forms best suited to win the minds, then steal the souls of their adherents: wise counselors and benevolent ring-givers they seemed; at other times they appeared as dark sorceror-priests or bloody gods of war; whichever guise fit the temperament of those to be subjugated, so did the Dark Lords appear.

But corruption on such a vast scale was an insidious process, wrought with cunning patience by an immortal Evil. To meet their ambitious ends, the Dark Lords first relied more on whispers than war: better to serve up a great lie as something pleasing to the palate in candlelit ambience, rather than with a blade to the belly in the clear light of day. With the hidden hands of malign puppet-masters, the Dark Lords drove their minions to madness, and consigned peaceful kingdoms in the East to the flames; yet ever was their true purpose the utter domination of the West, an ancient desire and consuming passion that often blinded them to all else. And so, the Dark Lords instilled this great lust and hatred within deluded warrior-kings, leaving them with a hunger for power unsated in the East. With the dogs of war thus held in thrall, the Dark Lords sent wave upon wave of these rabid legions westward to an ignominious and bloody end.

Yet for every kingdom that succumbed to corruption and chaos, and every avaricious king who followed his consuming lusts down dark paths to eventual wraithdom, there were those who strove mightily against Evil. It is a misconception in the West that only evil arises in the East. It can be said with justification that the East is the birthplace of all the races, whether good, ill or indifferent. But Good and Evil are subjective terms whose meanings change over time and are dependent on the attitudes of those who write the stories; therefore, freedom is a better gauge to measure the worth of a people. For it is in the seeking of freedom, the desire to live one's life without the willful domination of another, that has spurred every great enterprise ever conducted by Man or Elf (whether good or evil). It is an error in judgment to conclude then that goodness and freedom are much alike, for they are twin sons of different mothers: they may travel down the same road, but often in different directions.

I say then, look to the East! To the great and small alike who sought such freedom against the corruption and domination of the one true Evil: whether in the incarnation of Morgoth, or of Sauron, or of his sorceress understudy, Urzahil, once called the Mouth of Sauron (who even now amasses an invasion force along the Straits of Enegaer). Although these voices of freedom have been silenced, buried beneath the few shovelfuls of dirt that cover their far-flung graves, I shall strive to give utterance to their words, and speak for those whose stories lie entombed beneath the strata of Time. I wish to amend and make straight the tales from their very source.

I am Greagoir, court-scribe and envoy of Ship-lord Attar Kiryatin, Peer of the Syndic Council of Marannan-astair. It has been my life's work and my folly to join together all the great epics and histories of the East and the South into one vast compendium. It is a folly, I say, because I return home now blind and near lame after three-score years and ten of slavish dedication to a ceaseless task. Like a shadow-hunter stalking an ephemeral prey, I have scaled the Great Red Range, staggered through the Desert of Roaring Waste, and wandered aimlessly across the trackless plains of Rhun and Hildorien. I have spent dull days prattling in palatial palaces with boorish bards, and wondrous weeks enchanted by tales told by hermits in hovels. Yet as I lay here exhausted now from my travels, I feel I am no nearer my objective than when I first started!

For alas! My work is nowhere near complete! There are rambling narratives, half-finished chronicles, and ballads hastily scribbled on scraps of faded parchment (not to mention the unwritten tales rambling in the cobwebbed recesses of my mind!). And to make matters worse, I have no one but a simple slowcoach -- a witless boy -- to aid me in the completion of my work! Due to the exorbitant costs that qualified scribes charge these days, I have been forced to employ as an apprentice a scribeling barely weaned from his mother's teat! I am at the mercy of marketplace mediocrity, I tell you!

Ah, but I digress! My apprentice is not the insufferable dolt I make him out to be; in fact, he has shown great patience with this blind and bitter old fool. I cannot see his expression now as I recite, but if he smirks impertinently at my long-winded tirades, it is but small reward for the endless hours of narration he must endure. My only wish is that we, together, might finish the journey I began some seventy-odd years ago; and if I fail, I only pray that I have instilled in him the will to finish that which I could not. But where there is life, there is hope, I suppose. For good or ill, we are home at last!

Now, where was I? Ah, yes! Where is home you might ask? East of the dark Sea of Rhun, there are the Orocarni Mountains, the greatest range in all Middle-earth. The megalithic spine of the Orocarnis begins far to the frozen north and stabs hundreds upon hundreds of leagues southward, till it finally ends, spiking the very heart of the great Plains of Hildorien. Off the southeastern shores of Hildorien, there lies the Straits of Enegaer, where the restless waters of the Eastern Ocean flow into Enegaer proper, that is, the Inner Sea. South of the Strait is the vast land mass of Mu, called Southerland or The Dark Continent in common speech. Off the northwest tip of Mu lies an island called Marannan-astair, the Star of the Sea. I find it humorous that this great port-isle, with a forest of sea-spars bristling from a thousand ships, is where I call home; for, truth to tell, sea voyages make me wretch.

But I shall not bore you further with geography, or with my tedious life-story for that matter; save for that small slice of personal history that proved to be the impetus of my life's work.

**CHAPTER I: **_**In the Court of the Gondorion King**_

In my youth, I was sold as an indentured servant to a master-scribe named Gibiris (and it took me years to remove that yoke!). After learning the fundamentals of the scrivener's art and being formally guilded as an apprentice-scribe, I was obliged to follow Master Gibiris westward as part of the first trade mission from the Ship-lords of Marannan-astair to the fabled land of Gondor. Near a year's travel it took for us to reach Minas Tirith's legendary gates of mithril and steel, but in retrospect, it was worth every blister and callus on my aching feet!

Of course, as part of trade negotiations I had to endure endless hours of diplomatic intricacies (which are naught but earnest lies told with a practiced smile), and I aided the master-scribe in preparing a great, meandering document of legal gibberish (which was his specialty) full of clauses, terms, enjoinders, rejoinders, wherefores, whereases, heretofores, and parties-of-the-first-and/or-second-parts, until my eyes swam with articles and addenda. At last a deal was struck to all and sundry's satisfaction, and we were allowed an audience with the king (As an aside, it is with glee I note that the glorious trade agreement proved unworkable, and nothing ever came of it. But what amounted to no more than an extended sightseeing excursion of Minas Tirith proved far more valuable to me).

The King, Eldarion Telcontar, was ancient beyond count of years the one and only time I saw him (the Gondorions claimed his advanced age was supposedly due to his mother being Elvish!); yet he was still tall as a sea-king and wore his years with unbowed nobility. He had an aura of austere strength and spoke with wisdom and conviction, as befits a great lord who ruled such a vast realm of fiefs, princedoms, protectorates and dominions: from the bleak moors of Fornost in the north, to the scorching sands of Far-Harad in the south, and east to the very shores of the Sea of Rhun. This was a king one would gladly walk through fire for, and thank him afterwards for the scorching!

King Eldarion was beneficent as well as gracious. In addition to signing the untenable treaty, he bestowed upon us gifts from the four corners of his kingdom: from Dol Amroth, huge pearls and conch shells; from Near Harad, silk damasque and kaffe beans (which when ground, then brewed, make a delightful beverage); from the Dwarves of Aglarond, beautifully designed knives of peerless steel with hafts of lebethron inlaid with gold and precious stones; from Rhovanion, bee-nectar of the Beornings; and from a place simply called the 'Shire', casks of an aromatic herb called 'Longbottom Leaf' (which one smokes from a pipe -- a nasty vice that still holds me in thrall, cursed weed!).

And there below the royal throne I humbly stood, an addled apprentice at the heel of my dotardly master, who in turn followed the more important merchant-diplomats of our mission; but I swear that for an instant the king's bright eye locked on mine and he smiled and nodded slightly. Never shall I forget that moment for as long as I live! Little did I know at the time, but in that same year Eldarion would surrender up his life spirit of his own free will, just as his father, Elessar the Great, had done before him. Like unto kings of ancient Numenor they were, choosing to leave this mortal plane with full faculty and grace when they felt the presage of death weigh upon them; rather than falling into mean dotage -- bereft of dignity and nobility -- desperately gasping a few, last rattling breaths.

It is sad to hear so many years hence that Eldarion's son, King Elrondel, sits shakily upon a throne wracked with sorrow. News has reached the East that Elrondel's only son, a man who had reached his prime in stature, strength and maturity, and was full ready to be crowned king, now lays entombed in Rath Dinen -- a victim of a hunting accident (or murder, one never knows with court intrigues). To add further poignancy to his loss, Elrondel was accounted old, even for one of Numenorean descent, when he at last ascended the throne of his long-lived father. With the premature death of his adult son, Elrondel has been forced to outlive the natural span of years attributed to those of his race, and forego the singular grace bestowed upon the kings of his line. For Elrondel is left with only a granddaughter, Princess Silmarien, as a direct descendant of the House Telcontar, and therein lies a further tragedy: the long-held custom of Gondorion succession excludes women from inheriting the throne; therefore, Silmarien cannot rightfully be crowned Queen according to common law..

Thus, the King desperately clings to his throne, fretting away his waning years with the fervent wish that Silmarien should rule after him, in spite of a law to the contrary and fierce opposition in his court. But of all possible heirs to the throne -- the nephews and cousins within the royal House Telcontar -- Elrondel deems none higher than Silmarien, seeing in her the noble qualities of his father and grandfather before him, and the wisdom that he, as king, felt he lacked. With this in mind, Elrondel publicly announced that Silmarien would succeed him to the throne, citing as precedent ancient Numenorean law, which recognized the right of a woman of the royal line to be crowned queen. But the king's edict has thrown the courts of Gondor's many principalities into turmoil, splitting his vassals into two camps: those lords faithful to House Telcontar, who openly support the King and Princess Silmarien; and the opposing faction, consisting of reactionary lords who denounce the king's decision on the grounds that Gondorion law forbids women rulers, and those with more sinister motives, who see the schism as a means of furthering their own shadowy ambitions.

Elsewhere, the ancient enemies of Gondor, long seeking such ruinous dissension, have taken full advantage of the divisive situation. Like wolfish predators with the scent of blood, they raven along the unprotected marches of Gondor. In conjunction with these attacks --and no mere coincidence, to be sure -- the worship of Morgoth has risen anew, drawing strength among the ignorant folk as well as the ambitious, just as that heinous cult has done here in the East. There are even reports of uprisings in Gondor's southern provinces, where the lords are said to be sympathetic with the rebels, and may well be funding the revolt themselves. But this is to be expected, I suppose. Great realms such as Gondor are political animals: a healthy body of state with loyal constituents can withstand almost any external siege; however, if a state is infected from within, then it becomes easy prey to attacks from without. In the end, all empires falter in like manner.

But such is the current state of woe in Minas Tirith; that was not the case in the days of my youth, when Gondor was still a kingdom of magnificence unhindered with turmoil and sadness. Yet it is a sobering thought that in a mere three-hundred years since the defeat of Sauron and the return of the King, Gondor has fallen so quickly into shadow. I fear the days have come when Middle-earth shall no longer see the likes of such enduring realms as Gondor, whose rule is counted in ages rather than years. The pace of life has quickened in these Younger Days; time and events speed beyond Man's futile efforts to control them. The slow currents of History have become a raging torrent, and not even the Great and Wise can stem the tide. And as Time accelerates, wonder diminishes. There are no longer enough minutes in a day to stop and see the magic in the mundane, or the many splendors of a single sunset. But as I stated, that is the situation nowadays; seventy years ago Eldarion was the sage and mighty Lord in Minas Tirith, Gondor the Eternal had reached the zenith of its power, and I was a naive apprentice far from home.

When our audience with Eldarion had concluded, the King graciously bade us stay awhile in the White City, 'ere we make our long trek home. As luck would have it, the Loremasters of the Great Archives of Minas Tirith invited my master to visit their renowned library and discuss the finer points of the scrivener's art (and as apprentice to the Master-scribe, I got to tag along as well!). No words can express the awe -- the simple-minded delight -- which filled me as I entered the Great Archives. It was a massive domed structure with vaulted windows cunningly placed so that natural light streamed in from the entire radius of the high cupola. In the streaming sunlight I beheld row upon row of shelves near twice my height, so that they seemed to be the endless corridors of a maze, and upon these shelves, scattered in bewildering profusion, were countless chronicles, manuscripts, scrolls and tomes: the collected history and literature of the Men of the West. If there is an after-life for virtuous scribes, pray then it should be like this.

Leaving my master to prattle in high-minded vagaries with the keepers of this golden hoard, I wandered aimlessly through the archives for hours like a bee flitting through a field of clover, alighting here and there upon flowers of surpassing wonder and wisdom. Much of what I encountered was unreadable, written in the language of the Elves or other foreign speech, but I was entranced with the form of the words and how they rolled melodiously off my tongue, and the great antiquity and beauty of the manuscripts themselves, written by masters of the art of calligraphy. Yet nothing was to compare with my greatest find, the turning-point in my young life.

In the center of the vault, set apart from all the other shelves of books and parchment, there was a short, round dais of red marble, and atop it stood a stout oaken lectern intricately carved to mimic the bole of a tree. Upon the lectern shone a single beam of sunlight cast from some aperture high above in the dome. Drawn as if by fate to the stand, I saw illumined there a book with a red leather binding and gilt-edged pages. Entranced, I breathlessly opened the book, and was surprised and delighted to see that it was written in Westron, a common speech of trade and diplomacy known to the people of my island.

I poured voraciously over each page of the book, titled aptly, The Redbook of Westmarch, and learned that it was written by Hobbits, or Halflings, a race unknown to the Eastern World, save for tales of the Pigmis, a fabled tribe said to inhabit the southernmost depths of the forests of Mu. The Redbook gives the Hobbits' account of the great and terrible Third Age of the West, an era that culminated in the destruction of the One Ring and the Fall of Sauron. As I sat enthralled reading of the great panoply and epic nature of history in the West, it came to my mind that such volumes regarding the East were scant, if they existed at all. I gazed around at the Great Archives and realized that there was no such repository for the accumulated knowledge of the East. It was then and there I realized I had the makings of a quest: to gather the scattered histories of the East and South into one great encyclopaedia! This avocation or calling would require neither intense soul-searching, nor would it require great valor -- perhaps in the grand scheme of things it mattered not at all -- but it was to be my mission, and I accepted the challenge.

I ran excitedly to find my master, and with him the Loremasters of the Archives. When I spoke to them of my new-found mission, I knew what little to expect from my master, Gibiris, a man of limited vision, who used words in the same manner that one would count copper pennies; but I expected much more from the Grandmasters of Minas Tirith, who lived and breathed legends and lore. Unfortunately, I was sadly mistaken. I soon discovered these 'scholars' were no more than bureaucrats -- conservators and not interpreters -- who maintained the library, but did nothing to enhance it. An illiterate servant with a broom and feather-duster could accomplish as much.

Whereas I, a mere scribeling, would seek to explore every leather-bound volume or scroll of vellum as if I were diving for pearls of wisdom, these petty bookkeepers cared more for the bindings than the written masterpieces housed inside. These were not jewels lying before them, they were merely so many pebbles strewn across a dried-up riverbed. They were simply objects that were nice to use as borderly hedges for their literary gardens -- ready to trot out in their nice, neat rows when visitors came to tea -- but as useful as doorstops for the rest of the week. These Loremasters were in truth Wordwraiths, caged parrots consigned to the hell of rote memorization, regurgitating their lofty bits of drivel on state occasions for the amusement of their Lords. From thenceforward I equated the term 'loremaster' with 'dolt'. And there you have it: there are those who seek the lore, and there are those who sit on it. I consider myself a seeker.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER II: **_**The Lore-monger, the Scribeling and the Corsair**_

And then came the snoring. It punctuated the end of each chapter with a blunt finality. Greagoir was a master at keeping just enough wind in his bellows to complete a point, before suddenly dozing off. His mind might run far afield at times as well, but even his digressions were relevant to his overall narration, and he remained remarkably lucid and lively for his advanced age. He had much to say, but he felt there was too little time left to say it in; hence, his tendency to ramble. But he always returned to the crux of his tale, no matter how circuitous the route to arrival.

Greagoir's apprentice carefully spread some drying-sand on the wet ink of his parchment, then briskly waved the cramp from his writing hand. Splaying, then clenching, his fingers until the circulation returned to his fingertips, the apprentice leaned back in his chair and prepared for some well-earned rest himself. The master would remain asleep for perhaps an hour, depending upon his exertion. Rarely did he sleep for any lengthier period of time, choosing to regiment his days and nights with these 'catnaps', and he expected his apprentice to do the same ("Sleep is the refuge of the indolent," Greagoir would say; "no ballads were sung or great battles won while snoring."). Needless to say, the apprentice, named Tatya Reecho, was a rather pallid youth of seventeen years with great circles under his eyes; but after nearly five years of apprenticeship, he had become accustomed to catching a few winks while his master slumbered.

Before Tatya fell asleep, he watched his master for a moment as the old man grumbled and snorted in his fitful rest. The other apprentices of the Scrivener's Guild often referred to the Master-scribe as a 'pompous old windbag', and many a hapless scribeling had been frightened off by him over the years; yet to Tatya, Greagoir was a marvel, and the greatest Lorist of his day (Tatya was given a tongue-lashing of immense proportions the one and only time he mistakenly referred to Greagoir as a 'Loremaster'). And while Greagoir insisted that Tatya copy verbatim the master's recitations on long-dead heroes and ancient chronicles, the apprentice considered Greagoir's reminiscences as interesting, if not more so, than the lore. So the apprentice kept a secret diary of his master's memoirs, deeming that both story and story-teller were equally important; thus, the two themes became inextricably woven into the fabric of an even greater tale.

Invariably, Greagoir awoke to the sound of his own snoring. "Tatya, you lazy lay-about!" the master boomed irritably, "you have fallen asleep again in the middle of recitations! Curse these useless eyes! I cannot see when you've nodded off!"

"Forgive me, master," was Tatya's well-rehearsed reply, "shall we continue where you left off then?"

"No, slothful scribeling!" Greagoir replied in vexation, "read for me what you've managed to commit to paper. I only pray you haven't lost the entire narrative, damnable loiterer!"

Tatya smiled and reiterated the entire prologue and first chapter word-for-word (interrupted now and again with timely emendations from the master). Satisfied that his apprentice had faithfully copied the entire piece (and had not fallen into what the master would term as 'pernicious laxity'), Greagoir mumbled some quiet words of praise for Tatya, and continued on as if the confrontation had never occurred.

Shifting himself into a more comfortable sitting position on his bed, the blind bard began, "We shall commence with the retelling of the Tale of the Dark Elves. As history is a living thing, then it is only right we should begin with the birth of the Elder Race, the earliest recorded chronicle in the East. Tatya, fetch me the Book of the Unseelie Sidhe from the library."

Tatya chuckled to himself. The 'library' the master referred to was merely the largest of the three rooms that made up Greagoir's home, a ramshackle structure built of a mish-mash of stone, lath, daub and wattle, that was formerly a cotter's cottage. The house sat just below the central highlands of Marannan-astair (and luckily for the master, as far from the sea as one could get on the island), nestled along a great swath of pasture that was part of an estate owned by Attar Kiryatin, a Ship-lord and Greagoir's wealthy patron.

That Lord Kiryatin was once a ruthless corsair who had amassed his immense fortune through brigandage and wanton murder, mattered little to Greagoir. For the master, the end justified the means, a part of his contradictory nature that had always baffled Tatya. Greagoir was a very moral man for the most part, but in some things he utterly lacked scruples. In fact, Tatya was certain that his master would have joined Kiryatin in a life of piracy, if it were not for Greagoir's wretched bouts of sea-sickness. As it was, Greagoir had been responsible for his disreputable benefactor attaining the noble status and position he held on the island.

Attar Kiryatin was once feared in many harbors along the eastern shores of the world, and his piratical legacy precluded him from mingling in civilized society. Born of dubious parentage, and now with a price on his head, Kiryatin yearned to retire with his ill-gotten gains and become respectable (or at least not stalked by bounty-hunters and assassins). And so the corsair enlisted the services of a cunning young scribe renowned for a glib tongue and rather shady diplomacy: one Greagoir of Caladh. Using his subtle talents to conjure credible history from dread legend, Greagoir styled Kiryatin as the bastard son of a wealthy prince, born in one of the Khanates that lay along the Gold Coast of the Eastern Ocean. To achieve this fabrication, Greagoir himself traveled to the Khanate, and with exorbitant bribes lavished upon greedy court-bureaucrats, he purchased Kiryatin's birthright -- complete with letters of introduction, and an authentic-looking court decree officially embossed with the Khan's own royal seal.

Having in hand these flawless forgeries for his pirate princeling, Greagoir returned to Marannan-astair, but not until after he tarried a bit in the Khanate, gathering some bits of lore from the palace (much to Kiryatin's growing consternation). With the further use of bribes spread judiciously across the island ("Graft is a tune and every court hums it," the master had told Tatya), Greagoir slyly insinuated Kiryatin into the lofty circle of magnates, guild-masters, navy admirals and ship-lords who controlled the sea-trade and commerce of Marannan-astair, and thus, the island-nation itself. In short order, Kiryatin married a well-endowed and influential widow and gained a Peerage on the Council of Syndics, the ruling body of Ship-lords of the island.

Thus ennobled, Lord Kiryatin settled grandly into the respected role of Syndic Peer. Not forgetting his faithful (if somewhat conspiratorial) servant, Lord Kiryatin made Greagoir his court-scribe and envoy-at-large, allowing Greagoir to travel far and wide across the East, ostensibly on trade missions (or 'legitimized plunder' as the master put it). But the Ship-lord knew full well that his wayward scribe was really seeking additions to his beloved books of lore, and did not begrudge Greagoir for his lore-mongering; on the contrary, Greagoir vastly increased the Ship-lord's holdings through his shrewd negotiations with various trading partners as he traveled all over the Eastern World.

After many decades of this mutually-agreeable arrangement, Greagoir's sight began to fail and he grew lame. No longer able to maintain his role as court functionary and diplomat, Greagoir's positions were given over to younger men. Lord Kiryatin, now a sullen and scarred old man, became tight-fisted with his patronage. The Ship-lord might still be thankful for all Greagoir had done for him, but the demands on his depleted purse were far more tangible than any sentiment; therefore, he kept the scribe in a constant state of penury. Sparks would fly when the curmudgeonly bard and the cantankerous corsair discussed money, and Tatya had learned every curse word 'from Mu to the Mountains' during these altercations.

Beneath the thin veneer of respectability, however, Attar Kiryatin was still a corsair at heart; and if it's one thing a salty dog craves from his sailing days (aside from rape and pillage, of course), it is a well-told tale, and there was none better than Greagoir at the telling. So Kiryatin kept Greagoir on in his retirement, secluding him in the rundown cotter's cottage far from court, and endowing him with a paltry sum for a pension. Tatya wondered if Kiryatin had done this merely to infuriate Greagoir, so that their high-spirited exchanges could continue. To Tatya, they seemed like an old married couple, staying together -- bitter and brawling, year after year -- simply because no one else could stand them.

"Blast it, Tatya, quit your daydreaming and return here at once!" came the familiar bellow from the master's bedroom. This was followed by a string of curses in at least three different languages.

Startled, Tatya shook himself from his reverie, quickly grabbed the thin black volume from its place on a shelf, and then grumbled all the way back to Greagoir's room. The master would expect him to recite tonight, a duty the apprentice despised, even if the story of the Dark Elves intrigued him. He much preferred Greagoir's lively interpretations of the passages, but reading aloud was a necessity, as cataracts had totally robbed the master of his sight. There was no other way for Greagoir to decide which sections of notes would be used for inclusion in the main books of the compendium, or for the inevitable series of edits, rephrasing, notations and changes of tense the master would require before Tatya could at last commit pen to paper, and write the finished piece. Tatya shrugged and rolled his eyes as he placed the volume of notes into the blind scribe's hands.

"Ah, the Dark Elves!" Greagoir beamed as he clutched the black leather book to his chest. "Know you, Tatya, that I consider my journey in search of the Dark Elves as the bravest adventure I have ever undertaken?" Greagoir considered his choice of words for a moment, then added, "Brave...or foolhardy, more likely. I was young and stupid, I suppose. I cannot recall whether I considered myself indestructible, or if I thrived on near-death experiences; in either case, young and stupid still holds true!

Tatya, sensing a reprieve from doing his recitations, grinned and quickly grabbed quill and parchment.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER III: **_**Prelude to a Journey**_

"I had heard tales of the Dark Elves ever since I was a young boy," the master began. "In some legends they were described as a fey and sinister race, while in others they were heroic and courteous; but whether one considered them malicious or noble, it was always best to avoid the 'Good Folk' if at all possible. Their ancient lands are far to the north, in hidden vales and primeval forests along the eastern slopes of the Orocarni Mountains, where they have lived beyond the count of years, 'ere even the sun and moon first graced the skies.

"Ever secretive, these Elves wove webs of enchantment and dark deceit about the borders of their realm; bewildering spells of dread that caused confusion and madness to anyone who dared enter their forests. For the Dark Elves brooked no trespassers on their lands, and it is said none who entered their haunted woods were ever seen again; or if they did return, the unfortunate survivors emerged many years later, old and wizened and unrecognizable to their kin -- wasted shadows of their former selves. But such is the legend; one must separate the truth from the fiction.

"What is the truth then? The Dark Elves are, of course, immortal, and have been called capricious, vengeful and bloodthirsty. In addition, all sorts of vile or sorcerous acts have been attributed to them: the evil eye, blood sacrifice, spells of glamour, poisoning of wells, hexes and curses, slavery, scalping fallen foes, and the kidnapping of mortal infants; however, most of these acts are fabrications whispered by their enemies, or bogie stories told by frantic mothers in an effort to frighten their spoiled brats into good behavior. I say most of these accusations are untrue, but not all, for the Dark Elves, or Sidhe, as they call themselves, are a fierce and warlike race, with the arcane and innate abilities of the Firstborn. In war they conduct themselves with such savage abandon that not even the barbarous armies of Khamul, the Butcher of Balchoth, could defeat them.

"Many of the legends surrounding the Dark Elves have arisen out of fear, and their enemies do fear them. Fear is a potent weapon, and the Sidhe wield it masterfully. Over the centuries the Dark Elves have warred incessantly with their neighbors: the Rus, a nomadic tribe of herdsmen living on the wide steppes south of the Sidhe, and the Dwarves, whose mansions are delved deep beneath the central regions of the Orocarnis. The Rus are superb horsemen, but they cannot match the skills of the fearless Sidhe, who ride as if born on horseback; yet their antagonism has little to do with skill on horseback, it is born out of competition for the great herds of wild stallions that roam the southern plains. No mere steeds are these, for they are descendants of the fathers of all horses, and none can match them save perhaps for their distant cousins, the _Mear-an_, who live in the far western realm of _Rochand_. Thus, much animosity has grown from their rivalry, with claims and counterclaims of horse-thievery and rustling herds of cattle, for the northern steppes are also noted for the _Kine of Araugh_, great, shaggy beasts that supply meat, fur and milk in profusion.

"The Dwarves of the Blacklock tribe, easternmost of the Seven Houses of the Dwarrowfolk, were once allies of the Dark Elves. Much trade was there in ages past between these two races, but never great love. Still, the Dwarves were beholden to the Dark Elves, for in the earliest days the Elves had aided the Dwarves in ridding their mountain halls of the dragons, the worms and the winged drakes that still plague parts of the Orocarnis to this very day. Yet there came a time when relations between the Elves and Dwarves cooled dramatically. A Blacklock King named Ban (who some say gained the throne by assassination) was far less courteous to the Dark Elves who visited his halls than his forebears. Ban treated the Sidhe with contempt in matters of trade, becoming more interested in haggling for profit than maintaining good relations with his neighbors. Eventually the pettiness of the haughty Dwarven King turned to scornful suspicion, and he called the Dark Elves spies and drove them forth from his halls with insults and warlike words.

"And the doors of the Blacklock mansions were shut against the Sidhe, who went away with heavy hearts, for they held no ill-will against the Dwarves. Little did the Elves understand the fierce lust that was awakened amongst the Dwarves, an all-consuming greed for gold and the amassing of great fortunes. Such earthly desires were foreign to the Dark Elves, who cared little for the trappings of wealth; yet if the Sidhe had learned then what drove the Dwarves to abandon reason for insatiable madness, they would not have been so unprepared when the bitter stroke fell and the Blacklocks at last betrayed their former allies.

"In the time of Hodur, the seventh Blacklock King in line of succession since the days of Ban, there came to fruition a grand and evil scheme whose foundations were laid many generations earlier. For it was the Dark Lord Sauron who exerted his will cunningly on the King of the Blacklocks, and incited war in the Mountains of the East. Knowing that he could not dominate the Dwarves in the manner of mortal Men, Sauron instead used his wiles to play upon the inherent greed of the Dwarves. It was learned that Sauron had given Rings of Power to the Seven Houses of Dwarves many centuries earlier, and one of these had been greedily accepted by King Ban of the Blacklocks. But it was King Hodur now who held the Ring, and he accounted this corrupted gift as the cornerstone of the Blacklock's overflowing treasury.

"For the Blacklocks, alone of the seven Dwarvish Houses, did great traffic with the foul Orc-folk, furnishing the arsenals of Mordor with a continuous supply of arms and weaponry. For this treacherous act, the Blacklocks were accursed and outcast by the other tribes of Dwarves, save perhaps for the Ironfist clan, who were their closest kin and allies. But in the reign of King Skald, Hodur's great-grandfather, the High King, Borin II of the House of Longbeards, banned the Blacklocks from the Dwarvish Council of Seven, and forbade any further interaction with them. If the Blacklock Kings were embittered by their banishment, they did not show it; great wealth had they amassed through their commerce with Mordor, and they had no wish to see it end. Thus it was that Sauron placed a heavy yoke of fealty upon the necks of the Blacklock Kings, and on King Hodur it fell the heaviest, as the Dark Lord ordered the Blacklocks forth to invade the lands of the Sidhe.

"To assure the annihilation of the Dark Elves, Sauron dispatched the Ringwraith Khamul with an army of Orc and Easterling tribesmen to aid the Blacklocks, for Khamul held a particular hatred for the Dark Elves. Khamul was once a great Warlord of a fearsome confederacy of tribes collectively called the Balchoth, who terrorized the plains of Hildorien from the Eastern Ocean to the Orocarni Mountains for centuries. Khamul had aspirations for building an Eastern Empire, and set about consolidating the Balchoth's gains with unrelenting cruelty (once encircling a besieged city with the heads of 10,000 prisoners spitted atop poles). But an alliance of Dark Elves, Dwarves (the very same Blacklocks who were now Khamul's allies), desert tribes of the Roaring Waste, and the Khanate of the Five Kingdoms, joined forces and crushed the Balchoth in the Battle of Bajazet. So decisive was the rout that the Balchoth were driven utterly from the East, and were forced to settle in the lands of Rhun and Khand, where they would not rise again to trouble Middle-earth for an age or more.

"Of Khamul's fate nothing is certain, save that he escaped the decimation of his vast horde alone and in despair. Khamul had for many years worn one of the nine Rings given to mortal Men as tokens of favor by the Sauron, but the Warlord of the Balchoth was prideful and strong of will. With his fiery belligerence and native strength, Khamul had long managed to override the hideous effects the Rings were said to exert. But now, riding blindly onward, his mind strangled with the thoughts of lost empire, it is believed that in the impotent desperation of the vanquished he at last succumbed wholly to the will of Sauron. Thus Khamul gladly shed the constraints of flesh and sinew, and of humanity itself, trading his lustful soul for the terrifying powers of Undeath. And thus, he became a _Nascgaol_, a Ringwraith of Sauron, ever bound to Dark Lord's malignant whims.

"The onset of the invasion by Khamul and the Blacklocks was swift and catastrophic. Many of the hidden vales of the Sidhe were mercilessly put to the sword before they could mount a proper defense. If it were not for the prodigious efforts of the Sidhe Lord named Mor Thoir Iolar, or MorThoriol, the Great Eagle of the East in the tongue of the Dark Elves, or Black Eagle in the speech of the West, the Dark Elves would have been swept from the mountains. Under their valorous Prince, the Sidhe regrouped and drove their enemies back with great slaughter. Khamul's hope for a quick victory was dashed, and the grand invasion quickly became mired into a ruinous siege.

"The Dark Elves' defense of their homeland was so ferocious that it became difficult to tell who were the invaders and who were those besieged: Easterling chieftains were found garroted in their tents; water and food supplies were poisoned; companies of Orc were buried beneath avalanches; and on many a morning the Blacklocks would awake to find the heads of their Dwarvish sentries lanced atop bloody pikes in the middle of camp. It soon proved harder and harder for Khamul and King Hodur to order their forces up the mountain. So great was the fear instilled by the sorcerous Sidhe that the superstitious Easterlings under the Ringwraith's command began to call themselves _The Sciamachy_: those who fight against shadows.

"In the end, it was neither MorThoiriol's brilliant tactics, nor the Dark Elves' prowess in battle that saved them. In joy and shocked disbelief the Elves gazed down from the fastness of their mountain bastions one morning to find that the armies of Khamul and King Hodur had broken camp and were even now marching off in long lines to the south. What then had caused this hasty retreat? It was not learned until many years later that Sauron himself had issued an urgent summons to all his minions scattered across Middle-earth; for war was brewing on the marches of Mordor, and the Dark Lord was calling his forces unto him.

The Blacklock Dwarves, too, would answer his call, and march off to war in the West; but they did not go unwillingly. Sauron again used the Dwarves' own native wrath and lust for gold against them, intensified now to monstrous proportions by the Ring of Power. Sauron kindled in King Hodur's willful mind the longstanding animosity the Blacklocks held for the House of the Longbeards, and further stoked the flames of King Hodur's greed by offering the very halls of Khazad-dum itself as the price for Hodur's betrayal. Thus deluded, the Blacklocks and their kin, the Ironfists, were the only Dwarvish Houses ever to have joined their banners with Sauron's in battle.

"Arrayed against the vast legions of Sauron were a powerful alliance of High Elves, Men of Numenor and Dwarves of the Folk of Durin, and a terrible battle -- the greatest of the Age -- was fought on the plains of Dagorlad. It is said that in the thickest of the fray the High-king of the Dwarves, Durin IV, met Hodur in single combat and slew him, thus repaying the Blacklock King for his base treachery. King Hodur's Ring was lost on the field of battle, and leaderless and scattered, the Blacklocks fell under the bright blades of their enemies. The wrathful hosts of Elves and Men and Dwarves claimed an overwhelming victory on that day, and chased the fleeing and broken armies of Sauron back into Mordor. Few, if any, of the Blacklocks ever returned to their gloomy mansions in the East, bearing the bitter news of the humiliating defeat and the loss of their King."

Greagoir sighed and stroked his beard, looking rather befuddled. "But I am getting ahead of myself, or behind myself, as it were," the master ruminated. "Needless to say, the Blacklocks and the Dark Elves were greatly diminished by these tragic wars, and neither race went forth in open battle ever again; but an undying hatred for the Blacklocks remained with the Dark Elves. A sleepless watch was placed on the Dwarves' eastern gates, and the vengeful Sidhe would waylay and mercilessly slay the Blacklocks whenever the chance arose."

"But why should Sauron see fit to annihilate the Dark Elves?" Tatya asked innocently. Inwardly, the apprentice gloated. It was the type of question requiring at least an hour's worth of explanation.

"Why? Greagoir answered irritably, "One might as well ask why Dark Lords ever seek world domination in the first place! I've always considered the whole idea of Dark Powers and their rather overwrought need to destroy all life in Middle-earth to be damn silly, truthfully. So you conquer the world and burn it to a charred husk, then what have you got? Nothing but ashes and dust! Who wants to be the Lord of the Husk?"

"Yet Morgoth, Sauron and now the Mouth of Sauron all seem to seek the same ends using the same methods," Tatya continued, trying to sound as logical as possible.

"That's not necessarily true, Tatya," Greagoir replied; "each have a slightly different method to their madness; for it is madness, or lust perhaps, that overtook each. Morgoth, the first Dark Lord, sought conquest and destruction purely to spite the Valar, his former kindred. Their warring began long before there were Elves, Dwarves or Men in Middle-earth; it was a feud that stretched back to before the world was made. In his defiance and rebellion, Morgoth became consumed in envy for the creations of the Valar, and he held a hatred for all life. You see, he lacked the means for creation, as it was stripped from him after his Fall. This impotent jealously eventually devoured him, and all the evil fruits of his labors came to naught.

"Sauron was far more clever than Morgoth, whose single-mindedness cost him his freedom more than once. Sauron escaped Morgoth's fate by knowing when to bend and when to hide. His shrewdness in deceiving the Elves into making Rings of Power, and his corruption of the King of Numenor, which led to that great empire's utter destruction, were insidiously evil and criminal, but deserve admiration strictly for audacity and deviousness. Yet Sauron, too, had faults: he relied too heavily on Orcs, he was a poor battle strategist, and in the making of the One Ring, he became just as much a puppet to its power as anyone else who happened upon it. Thus, by the strangest of chances, his own creation caused his demise. One could say that the Great Eye was rather shortsighted.

"The Mouth of Sauron, this Urzahil who now seeks for utter domination, seems to have learned from the mistakes of his predecessors; but there are too many unanswered questions regarding this lieutenant of Sauron, leaving us little to speak of, save for generalizations and vagaries. He does not seem to wield the power of an immortal, and it is said that he is indeed a man of the extinct line of the Black Numenorean race; but his strength is in organization and the evils of bureaucracy, rather than supernatural ability. He still may use Orcs, but he relies on Men as the fulcrum of his forces. So too, he corrupts through faith, and has built the Cult of Morgoth with the blood and bones of zealots. The corrupt legions of the Sidhe Dragun die so readily in battle not through domination and fear, but in the belief that they shall be rewarded in the afterlife for their sacrifice. They are ignorant and deluded, without a doubt, but therein lies their great danger. There is no greater fool than one blinded by faith; for he who is capable of seeing only one thing, is incapable of seeing anything else."

Greagoir frowned and shook his head in disgust. "But your original question regarded Sauron," he grumbled in aggravation, obviously too irked by the current political situation to continue discussing it. "I should think that someone with the subtlety of Sauron preferred the corruptive aspects of power, rather than merely 'winning'. "In the end, it all comes down to playing the game, and not whether one wins or loses; but I am not speaking nobly in the 'playing-fair-and-square' sense, I am referring to the excitement of the chase, the thrill of battle, or the sweaty palms on a gambler's hands. But once something has been achieved, it becomes rather boring after a bit, doesn't it? There has got to be a next level, or the game isn't worth a damn, even for immortals."

The master reflected a bit, then added, "In the case of Sauron and the Dark Elves, I should think it was along the lines of relieving an itch one can't scratch." Greagoir tapped the black book on his lap and said, "The 'itch' is located in these pages of notes, my dear apprentice. It is our mission to 'scratch' it."

Tatya was crestfallen. He thought he had cleverly sidestepped the arduous process of reading, editing, then rereading, but the master had turned the tables on him.

Greagoir smiled wryly as he handed the book to the sullen apprentice, then said, "But before you start your recitation, Tatya, let me expand on Sidhe civilization for a moment or two. I don't believe I've ever told you about the time I actually rode north in search of the Dark Elves."

Tatya smiled with satisfaction. An unearned victory was a victory just the same.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER IV: **_**The Caravan of Mifhortun Dur**___

My first master, Gibiris, had expeditiously chosen to die the winter previous. As Gibiris was a man of limited means in both mind and money, there was little worth in his meager estate, and obviously nothing for a bonded apprentice. But as I was part of his personal effects, much like a pair of boots or a table, I was written into his last testament. Fortunately, my departed master had made provisions for my release from servitude -- bless his bones! He forgave my life-debt in lieu of long years of service rendered; thus, I was a free man at last.

And there I was, a journeyman apprentice, unattached and with no prospects (or food, for that matter); so I packed up what scant belongings I had, and headed for the bustling city of Caladh, the sprawling commercial center of Marannan-astair, and the greatest sea-port in all the East. Due to its position in the Straits of Enegaer, Marranan-astair and its capitol, Caladh, controlled trade heading back and forth from the Gold Coast of the Eastern Ocean to the settlements along the Inner Sea, as well as exporting raw materials from the vast continent of Mu. If ever there was a place for an ambitious young man to seek his fortune, it was in Caladh.

It was evening when I arrived in the city, and as I made my way through the crowded bazaars that lined the lamp lit quays, I came upon a rather round and jovial merchant who was recruiting for a caravan scheduled to set forth that spring. I struck up a lively conversation with the rotund pitchman, named Mifhortun Dur, and discovered that, among other open positions, the merchant was in need of an interpreter fluent in the speech of the Rus. It seems Mifhortun Dur's caravan was to make the long trek up the Northern Trade Route, and seek for the Rus tribesmen along the high plains of Hildorien. An interpreter was needed to barter with the Rus, and aid in striking a deal for a herd of the famed horses that ranged across the steppes. These fabulous steeds were worth their weight in gold, and fetched tremendous sums at auction in Marannan-astair.

That I spoke only a few phrases of Rus mattered little, for Mifhortun Dur struck me as being rather naive for a businessman. By the time our interview had finished, I had convinced Mifhortun that I spoke the language as if born to it, and he hired me on the spot. So delighted was the merchant that he even agreed to pay part of my wages in advance; which was well, as I had no intention of returning south with the caravan once negotiations had been completed. I already had it in my mind to strike north of Hildorien in an attempt to find the hidden realm of the Dark Elves, the first leg of the quest I had set for myself so many years earlier in Minas Tirith.

Within a month, initial preparations were completed in Caladh. I joined Mifhortun Dur and the various other merchants, wranglers, farriers, wainwrights, drovers, teamsters, cooks, servants and slaves who would comprise the caravan, and we took ship, making a nor' westerly crossing of the Straits of Enegaer (and as little is said about that voyage, the better). We made port in the harbor of Merrow, a fortified town on the shores of Hildorien long held by the Ship-lords of my island. It was in Merrow that we were to meet our caravan-master and the guards hired to protect us along the great march up the Northern Trade Route.

The caravan-master was a sullen and disagreeable-looking sort named Marfach-Suil. I remember the man had yellow eyes, fetid teeth and smelled of rotten peas. I hated him immediately. Seldom do I misjudge men (and when I do, I learn from my error), but it was certain to me that Marfach-Suil was a man who could kill without remorse, and steal the pennies from his dead mother's eyes. That Mifhortun Dur, the simple merchant who had hired me so easily, would trust this surly caravan-master as well filled me with further apprehension. As I stated, Mifhortun Dur was not the brightest star in the heavens.

Accompanying the repugnant caravan-master were a dubious assortment of mercenaries so much like Marfach-Suil, that I wondered if perhaps they were not all of the same race (if ugliness can be considered a racial trait). Desert tribesmen of the Roaring Waste they seemed to be, swathed from head to foot in dark linen, save for their sun-darkened, leathery faces (and I would have considered it a blessing if they had kept those covered as well); but aside from their unsavory appearance, these mercenary-guards were absolutely necessary for our dangerous journey. The trade routes, even in that time of relative peace, were infested with fierce bands of highwaymen and nomad slave-traders who preyed upon the rich offerings of the caravan-trade; yet such was the enormous potential of caravanning that merchants would gladly take the risks. Those lucky enough to survive robbery, slavery or murder became fabulously wealthy.

Having drunk to excess the night before our departure, I of course stumbled out of bed in the morning looking and feeling my best. Dazed and still half-drunk, I found a covered wain filled with soft, pliable barleycorn and plopped myself inside for the first part of the journey. Awaking again for a second time late that afternoon, I found that the caravan had passed out of sight of the town, and beyond all other civilized habitation, for that matter. The Great Plains of Hildorien, an endless range of steppe-land that stretches for hundreds of leagues to the north, east and west, was to be my home for the next several months. To relieve the boredom, I pulled out my notes on the Rus language and began to study them earnestly. You see, I had had the great fortune of making the acquaintance of a Rus stable-hand just prior to leaving Caladh, and he gladly shared the knowledge of his mother-tongue with me (after several pints of ale, of course).

Traveling by caravan is neither romantic, nor exciting: the animals stink, the food stinks, the guards stink, and every monotonous moment drags drowsily into dreary days, ticking to the tedious cadence of oxen sadly lowing, slowly plodding mile after mile after countless mile down a flat expanse of utter nothingness. True insanity is measured by the amount of giddy elation one feels at seeing a lone tree on the barren plain. I was miserable; more so when I discovered that the speech of the Rus was merely a series of grunts, slurs, clicks and attempts to clear phlegm from the back of one's throat. The caravan did not need an interpreter; a drunk with a bad cold would have sufficed. The tedium was only relieved a bit when we set up camp every evening. After eating what can only be described as swill the pack animals could not stomach, we told tales and sang around the campfires until blessed sleep at last overtook us.

Perhaps my mind had finally snapped from motion sickness and sheer boredom, but I began to take an interest in the strange and somewhat sinister habits of the guards. Never did they mingle with the other folk of the caravan during the day's march, and at night, they did not join us around the campfires, preferring to segregate themselves into separate enclaves far from the main camp. There they sat, huddled around their own fires, whispering conspiratorially in the guttural tongue of their tribe. Having nothing but time on my hands, I would often sneak in the darkness to the edge of their camp and eavesdrop on their near-unintelligible conversations. But this odd mania of mine eventually bore bitter fruit, for I quickly learned that the mercenaries' gruff language was akin to the speech of the Rus, and I began to understand their harsh dialect.

I was shocked (but hardly surprised) at what I managed to translate: the mercenaries, with Marfach-Suil as their leader, were plotting to plunder the caravan once the merchants had purchased horses from the Rus! They intended to murder or enslave us all, and then sell the horses themselves! I brought these dread tidings of treachery to Mifhortun Dur, but, to my endless amazement, the fat merchant met my dire warnings with a mix of disbelief and annoyance. He replied that I must certainly be mistaken, because Marfach-Suil had led quite a few of his caravans in the past. Yet Mifhortun promised he would discuss the matter with the caravan-master, and abruptly ushered me out of his tent, all the while having me promise that I would keep my silence, for he wanted no dissension within his caravan. I left in disgust, certain now that the merchant was an idiot. I decided that I must watch and ware for my own safety's sake, and I slept with one eye open.

Finally, after nearly three months of torturous travel, the caravan reached the high-plains of Hildorien, the homeland of the Rus. The Rus were nomadic tribesmen who followed the seasonal migrations of the wild herds of horse and kine that ranged across the arid steppe. They had no permanent settlements, save perhaps hidden refuges used in times of war, concealed among the shoulders of the Orocarni Mountains, which loomed above us now to the west. So, rather than wander aimlessly about the steppe in search of the elusive Rus, the caravan-master ordered the long train of wains to be unhitched, and we set up a semi-permanent trading post along a stream, and there we waited. After a few days, a group of tribal elders approached the camp and hailed us. It was now time for me to perform the duties for which I had been hired.

Fortunately for me, the Rus language proved fairly simple to muddle through (although I am sure my accent was dreadful). Negotiations were at first tense, because the Rus were very wary of strangers (as they should be), but as trade talks continued I found these rough nomads to be quite shrewd, unwilling to trade their beloved horses for a few cheap trinkets, grain and some iron utensils. The Rus were much like their northern neighbors, the Dark Elves, in that regard. They had deep bonds of respect and affection for their steeds, and a cult of the horse had grown over centuries of close association with the beasts. But Mifhortun Dur proved to be a soft touch in trade talks, giving away far more than I ever would, had I been conducting negotiations and not just interpreting. The merchants of our party grumbled anxiously as well regarding Mifhortun's apparent lack of business sense, particularly since it was their merchandise he was giving away. But in the end, the parties came to a mutually satisfactory purchase price, and the Rus tribesmen rode off to round up the number of horses specified in the agreement.

It was quite spectacular to see the skillful Rus drovers guiding a herd of some three hundred horses towards our camp. No words can describe the heart-pounding feeling -- for it was a feeling -- transcending both sight and sound, as these magnificent beasts thundered and wheeled across the steppes towards me. Filled with exhilaration, I fully understood then why the Rus so loved these proud steeds. Once the herd had been handed over to our drovers, it was then the job of the caravan's wranglers to separate the stallions from the mares for easier transport. Makeshift corrals had been constructed for this reason, as well as for the protection of the herd against thieves while the caravan sat on the open plain. It would take another few weeks of preparation before the caravan, and the horses, would be ready to journey back south down the Trade Route and homeward.

With my part in the negotiations completed, I no longer felt it necessary to stay with the caravan. It seemed particularly wise that I should keep to my original plan and head north, and quickly, as I feared that Marfach-Suil and his fine band of cutthroats could take the camp at any moment. But before I abandoned the caravan to its doom, I felt honor-bound to warn Mifhortun Dur one last time regarding the impending plot. The plump merchant was, as always, in a pleasant mood as I tried to impress upon him the terrible predicament the caravan was in, and once again he ignored me as if I were a child having a bad dream. Left with no alternative, I angrily told Mifhortun that if he would do nothing, then I must at least warn the others in the caravan of their peril. I then left the fat fool sitting in his tent. But there are 'fools', and then there are 'Fools'; and I proved to be the biggest 'Fool' of them all.

As I emerged from the tent, there stood Marfach-Suil, smiling (or scowling, they were one in the same with him). He nodded at me as if in acknowledgement, but suddenly, rough hands were laid on me from either side, and I was held fast. The caravan-master's sneering grin became more malicious, and he raised a cudgel above his head. I stood there stupidly, not even attempting to cry out as the club came crashing down, and I was struck with a vicious blow to the temple. My head howled as the sky spun drunkenly, and I fell into blackness.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER V: A**_**n Intrigue Unveiled**_

I do not know how long I laid there, chased by shadows in dark dreams to the discordant rhythm of hammers slamming against anvils, but little by little, I became dimly aware of my surroundings. I was in one of the mercenary's tents, and by the light streaming in from the tent-flap and by the stifling heat, I could tell it was late afternoon. As I struggled to full wakefulness, the direness of my situation became more apparent: I was cruelly bound both hands and feet, and gagged as well. For several more hours I lay, alone and betrayed, as darkness gathered inside and outside the tent.

That I was not killed outright offered little consolation, for certainly further torment awaited me; still, I pondered this cruel twist of fate while my forehead pounded. It was obvious now that Mifhortun Dur had been in league with Marfach-Suil all along, and I cursed myself for being a witless fool; but I still could not fathom the depths of their odd alliance. What purpose was served for Mifhortun Dur plotting to have his own caravan hijacked? As I tried to make sense of it all in my muddled head, the tent flap stirred and in stepped Mifhortun Dur, humming jovially and sweating profusely like a great robed pig. Lighting a lantern and hanging it on the ridgepole of the tent, the plump merchant noticed that I was conscious and ceased his merry little tune.

"Ah, so our stubborn scribe has returned to the land of the living!" Mifhortun said with a broad smile. "And lucky you are to be alive, my young friend! Marfach-Suil -- whom I am sure you will agree is a most unpleasant sort -- wished to kill you last night. Fortunate it was for you I convinced the caravan-master that it would be a waste of money to leave your carcass as a feast for the carrion crows. Your true value lies in the slave markets of the Far East, where a learned scribe and interpreter of your talents will bring a tidy sum in Bajazet or on the Gold Coast!"

Mifhortun Dur plopped himself down with great difficulty on a pillow, all the while watching for my reaction. Obviously pleased by my puzzled and angry expression, he continued, "Oh-ho! So you do not yet fully grasp the little game I play, eh? Well, let us just say that I stand to make a far greater profit by using Marfach-Suil and his men to rid me of my business partners than keeping to my original agreements. These desert tribesmen will require far less in compensation than my fellow merchants, who would rightly demand a far more equitable share in the proceeds, seeing as they are the ones who put up the immense sums of gold necessary to fund this caravan. With them out of the way, I shall sell the horses and slaves, such as yourself, in the Far East, there to live out a splendidly wealthy life in a sunny, seaside villa; while back home in Marannan-astair folks shall mourn the heart-rending loss of Mifhortun Dur and his caravan, beset by murderous horse-thieves or evil slavers on the high-plains, and -- ever so tragically -- never to return!"

Mifhortun Dur's sordid soliloquy was interrupted by a great tumult outside the tent: angry shouts of guards, the clash of weapons, men crying out in surprise and pain, and horses whinnying fearfully. "Ah, so it has begun!" Mifhortun grunted triumphantly as he managed to lug his immense weight off the ground. Peeling back the tent-flap to watch the melee from a safe distance, he turned back to me for a moment and winked. "Some say this is a cut-throat business we are in, Greagoir," he chuckled with glee, "I merely take them at their word!"

In a manner of minutes, it was over. The dead calm that descended outside the tent was interspersed occasionally with the sound of the lash and the anguished sobs of the newly enslaved as they were herded off into the distance. Mifhortun Dur stepped back from the doorway of the tent, and in strode Marfach-Suil, grimly clutching a bloody sword.

"It is done," the caravan-master growled with finality in his gruff accent. "All merchants are dead, the others we keep for slaves."

"Excellent, excellent!" Mifhortun Dur replied, patting the murderer on the back. "With only a few more days' preparation here, we shall be ready to head east as planned. But we must be careful and skirt below the oases along the Eastern Trade Route; we want none of the other traders asking uncomfortable questions. Even so, with luck we can reach Bajazet in less than a month!"

Marfach-Suil looked down at me and scowled. "We have change of plans," Marfach grumbled with his back turned to Mifhortun. "We go to desert first. My tribe has no horses. They need horses."

"Nonsense! Mifhortun replied in irritation. "You may have some horses as part of your share, if you wish, but we shall go to Bajazet to sell the herd as agreed. Take it or leave it!"

Still glaring at me, Marfach smiled cruelly. "I think I take it!" he growled, and turned suddenly on Mifhortun Dur, jabbing his sword deep into the merchant's distended belly.

Mifhortun sputtered in shock and fell to his knees. Marfach-Suil sneered, put his boot to Mifhortun's chest, and forcefully removed his blade, sending the merchant sprawling.

"You think you smart man, eh, Mifhortun Dur?" the caravan-master hissed angrily as he spat upon the wounded man. "You have Marfach-Suil and his men do your dirty work, then you take all the gold and leave us scraps like we are dogs, eh? No, fat man, I think we need new deal!"

Mifhortun Dur began to plead desperately for his life, under the mistaken notion that offering Marfach-Suil ever-larger shares of the profits would somehow change the sad outcome of these negotiations. But Marfach-Suil bent down and savagely slit Mifhortun Dur's throat.

"This is final offer!" Marfach laughed over Mifhortun as he gurgled his last breath "Now you take it or leave it!"

The caravan-master casually wiped the blood off his blade on the dead man's robes, then, as if suddenly remembering me, he stood and walked menacingly towards where I lay, helplessly bound as I was at the back of the tent.

After thinking for a moment with his sword hovering dangerously close to my face, Marfach-Suil finally said, "I think we let you live for now, even if you are spy. The fat one said you would fetch good price in slave-bazaar."

The treacherous caravan-master turned to leave but stopped short in the doorway of the tent. "You just better pray the fat one was right, or you join him!" he growled, then left me there with the body of his former co-conspirator, Mifhortun Dur.

Usually, one doesn't draw a great sense of relief from being condemned to a life of slavery, unless, of course, one is first threatened with an imminent and utterly nasty death. This was just such an instance, however, and I felt some comfort in the fact that I was allowed to live yet another day. Some time before midnight, a few of Marfach's mercenary guards came and dragged me out of the tent. They removed my gag and forced some water down my parched throat, then threw me, still bound, into one of the corrals originally meant for the horses, but which now served as a temporary holding pen for myself and the other enslaved survivors of the ill-fated caravan of Mifhortun Dur.

As my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I could see that Marfach-Suil had chosen his prisoners purposefully, for only the men who worked directly with the horses, or those tradesmen in the caravan with other specific skills (and therefore more valuable in the slave-trade), were allowed to live. Obviously, Marfach was not a man of patience, and did not care to wait and attempt to ransom off any of the wealthier merchants, for none of those were left among we slaves. It is with grim satisfaction I also note that the cooks had met an untimely end as well, most likely suffocated in their own pots of gruel by the vengeful guards.

And so I passed the first day of captivity with my fellow slaves, bound cruelly in a makeshift corral under the blistering summer sun on the high-plains of Hildorien. If the caravan ride up the Northern Trade Route had been tedious, this was far worse. There is a continuous state of anxiety one falls prey to while being held captive, an extended feeling of unease and restlessness that eats away at your hopes, leaving the numb realization that you might never return home again. To further heighten this emptiness, the guards, would not let us talk to one another for fear of our attempted escape, and this they emphasized heavily with the whip. The forced silence was crueler to me than the lash itself, for it was a constant reminder of my plight. The oppressive hours dragged from bleak morning, to the hazy doldrums of afternoon, to wretched evening without solace or shelter from the sweltering sun.

The night finally brought some blessed relief from the scorching heat, and a cool breeze drifted down from the mountains, but it did not bring rest. Even in my younger days, I could not sleep for any great length of time; but enslaved as I was, with both hands and feet tied, I was unable to channel my nervous energy. Lying motionless and unspeaking, I was certain to go mad long before we ever reached the slave-markets. In an attempt to quiet my fears, I began to pay closer attention to the night noises, the susurration of the wind and the far-off scurrying of plains animals.

Suddenly, I became aware of a peculiar nightbird's call echoing softly in the distance. Perhaps it was because I had never noticed this particular sound on previous nights, as I was usually awake at this late hour, yet I think it was more the steady pattern of the whistling cry that drew my interest. As I listened intently I found the call repeated around the perimeter of the camp, first north, then south, then east and west, and so on, at such regular intervals that it seemed as if it were some kind of signal or code. Intrigued with the thought, I drew myself up and crawled as quietly as I could towards the corral fence, hoping to get a better vantage point in the darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER VI: **_**A Strange Meeting with the Dark Elves**_

With care not to disturb the lolling guard at the entrance to the slave pen, I torturously inched my way towards the fence of the former horse corral, gritting my teeth from the pain in my still-throbbing forehead. Leaning at last against a fencepost for cover, I stared long into the blackness while following the cadence of the nightbirds' song beyond the scope of the sentry fires. There were eight sentry posts set roughly like compass points around the outer edges of the camp, as well as other posts set near the horse enclosures and the guard at the prisoner's compound close-by to where I sat. Each post had a small campfire and a single mercenary-guard, most of whom were lazily drowsing by this time of night. There was a changing of the guard at regular intervals throughout the night, and those mercenaries not on duty lay asleep in their tents.

At first I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, but I was certain I caught a glimpse of a shadow within the shadows, creeping ominously towards the southwest sentry post; yet no benighted vision was this, for the spectral shape loomed large over the dozing guard and overcame him in complete silence. My line of vision trailed to the southern and southeastern posts, and the same deadly apparitions fell upon the sentries there. The camp was under attack! But I had no intention of crying out; what did I care if these traitorous mercenaries found their deaths at the hands of other thieves? I would most likely be trading the yoke of one slavemaster for another in any case; so I merely watched, marveling at the stealthiness and precision of the invaders.

The shadow-hunters then stalked inside the camp, and overpowered the witless guards by the horse corrals. I found it strange that the horses -- whose flightiness at night is well known to anyone acquainted with the beasts -- barely stirred, neither snorting in fear nor nervously bolting to the far side of the corral. I then perceived two crouching forms heading sinuously through the gloom to the pen where I lay. Illumined now by the sentry fire, I saw they were cloaked in black, but their footfalls were soundless and their attack so quick and lethal, the nodding sentry did not even lift his head when they fell upon him. Standing over the slumped form of the guard, the two shrouded figures stopped and looked in my direction. I was laying behind a fencepost in pitch-blackness, far beyond the light of the small fire, but I somehow knew they were aware of me. I raised my hands to show that I was bound and nodded to them, and, to my surprise, one of them bowed in acknowledgement before they both slipped back into the darkness.

Before dawn, the invaders had taken the entire camp. Those mercenaries who had not been killed had been roused from their tents and taken prisoner. Two of the invaders, perhaps the pair I had watched earlier that night, came among we slaves and quietly freed us. As one of our liberators cut my bonds, I saw plainly that this was no man, for by his sea-gray eyes, tall stature and leaf-shaped ears, there was no doubt he was off the Elvish race! I bowed in approximation to what I had seen previously, and the Dark Elf smiled and bowed in return. In trying to thank the Elf, I attempted to speak to him in the Rus language, thinking he was perhaps familiar with the speech of his neighbors. In return, I received a frown of contempt.

"We speakest not the vulgar tongue of that beggarly tribe!" the Dark Elf said with disdain. "Know thee not the common speech once spoken widely in mortal lands, or has it fallen from favor with Men of the Southrons?"

I bowed again in embarrassment, cursing myself for a simpleton. Certainly, the Dark Elves would know Common Speech, a language used in diplomacy and trade for centuries. The Dark Elf's wording was antiquated and heavily accented perhaps, as if he rarely had use of such speech over the years, but his delivery was flawless nonetheless. "Pray forgive this, thy humble servant," I answered, using the same archaic dialect, "I merely wished to offer thanks and praise in manner perhaps familiar to thee of such noble race."

The Dark Elf nodded and replied, "I see now where thy intentions lie, and I thank thee for making the effort. But pray continue in a tongue more suitable for converse, and let not my gruffness cause any ill will between us. Long has it been since I have had speech with one of the mortal race."

Falling to one knee, I said, "Thou hast redeemed me from bondage most cruel. Naught have I to offer in just payment for this deed, save to surrender my life unto thee in servitude; until death take me, or thou judgest fit to release me. Prithee, take then this vow of service in token of a life's debt! And may a thousand blessings be upon thee and thy kin!"

The Dark Elf smiled warmly, and then chuckled at my overly grand gesture. "An offer most gracious well deserves a reply in like manner!" he said with delight and helped me to my feet. "Therefore, I release thee from thy vow, and gladly; though I tell thee now it is not the wont of my kindred to take one of mortal race into servitude, or slavery, which we deplore." He smirked, and then said, "In any case, thou wouldst serve for but a brief, fleeting season in the long lives of the Sidhe!"

The Dark Elf, named Findegal, and I became friends, and we talked for quite awhile, he seemingly as interested in my story as I was his. It seems Findegal was a member of an Elvish raiding party that had struck south from the woodland realm of the Sidhe in search of horses, and had come upon our camp a few days earlier. Having watched our movements for some time, the Dark Elves deemed we had purchased our herd fairly, and so they would not interfere with our passage back down the Trade Route. That all drastically changed, however, when they beheld the traitorous coup of Marfach-Suil and his mercenaries, and the murder or enslavement of the rest of the caravan. The Dark Elves, despising treachery in all its forms, felt honor-bound to right this injustice; therefore, the Sidhe were merciless in their attack, killing all the sentries without pity when they took the camp, and then imprisoning the rest. Findegal went on to tell me that Marfach-Suil and the surviving mercenaries were to soon to be judged by the Sidhe Lord himself, and they would all most likely be executed.

I walked then with Findegal, who took me to the spot where his kindred held the mercenaries prisoner. As we drew near the gathering of Dark Elves, one in particular caught my attention: tallest he was of these tall folk, and seemingly older, if one can say such a thing of immortals; his hair was as black as a raven's wing, plaited and braided and crowned with a filet of silver; but even from a distance his eyes were his most haunting feature, for they were deep gray as storm clouds -- wells of timeless wisdom softened by sadness -- yet keen and piercing as a bird of prey as he watched our approach. I asked Findegal who this striking Elf was, but I was already sure of the answer.

"Many a name hath he gone by in his long life," Findegal replied, "for he was born in starlit Cuifhiainan, which was Elvenhome of old, before the sun and moon were set in the sky: the dwarves name him Draighean, which is Blackthorn, for they have felt his heavy sting; to the Rus he is Scail an Bhais, the Shadow of Death, or worse; among the fierce drakes of the mountains, who both fear and respect him, he is called Morthoron, which is Black Eagle in the Western tongue; this title we use as well, but his name among us is MorThoiriol, the Great Eagle of the East, and Lord of the Sidhe."

MorThoiriol gazed at me intently as I was brought before him. Findegal introduced me as 'Greagoir, Scribe of the South Sea Islands', and I bowed most humbly before the Sidhe Lord. MorThoiriol nodded in return, with a slight smile on his lips, as if I amused him with my awkward manner. But he turned from me then and glared at Marfach-Suil and the other prisoners, who sat bound and sullen on the grass. "Tell me, Greagoir of the Islands," the Sidhe Lord asked, "What wouldst a mortal Man such as thee deem as a just sentence for these traitorous dogs, who hath come among thee as vile betrayers, enslaving thy folk and causing wanton murder?"

Looking over at Marfach-Suil, who glared malevolently at me with his horrid amber eyes, I was inclined to say, 'Give them all a bath and a good scrubbing, for that would surely kill them,' but I knew that would be highly inappropriate. Considering the Sidhe Lord's question for a moment, I finally answered, "My Lord, it is with certainty I would adjudge that these accursed men deserve an immediate and violent death; but such a sentence, rendered in haste and in the heat of anger, would be justice ill-served." I pondered briefly, and then concluded, "Therefore, if in truth thou hast given me the right to judge their fates, it would be my verdict that they should remain bound and taken henceforth back southward to my island home, there to answer for their crimes before the widows and children of the men they so ruthlessly slaughtered. Let those that survive the dead exact their vengeance; only then shall justice be truly served!"

MorThoiriolar gazed at me with a newfound respect, and nodded approvingly. "So be it!" he commanded to his vassals, "we shall let this verdict stand." The Sidhe Lord smiled upon me with satisfaction and said, "Greagoir of the Islands, thou hast shown wisdom far beyond thy meager count of years. Great indeed must be the mortal-folk of thine island if a mere scribe can acquit himself so shrewdly as a judge!"

Findegal leaned over to Lord Thoiriol and spoke quietly to him in the speech of the Elves, but all the while, the Sidhe Lord's sharp glance remained on me. When Findegal had finished, MorThoiriol spoke: "Scribe, thou art a wonder of the Eastern World! Not only dost thou mete out sage justice; in addition, my cousin Findegal informs me that thou hast heaped blessings on our House, and offered in fair speech service unto my kindred. Let it not be said that such courtesy, especially from one of the mortal race, should go unrewarded by the Lord of the Sidhe. Thus, a favor I shall grant thee, thou hast only to name it."

Overwhelmed by such an offer, I bowed so low that I nearly stumbled forward. Regaining my composure, I replied, "Gracious Lord, naught would I ask of thee of my own accord, but since thou hast granted me this boon, I crave only to visit the land of the Sidhe and record the history of thy noble race." I grinned sheepishly and added, "For truth to tell, my only reason for journeying north with this caravan was to seek for thy realm on my own. I see now that this course would have been folly, and I beg thy forgiveness for such impertinence."

Then MorThoiriol laughed aloud, the sound of which was so melodious and uplifting that it could melt the stony heart of a Hill-Troll. "Truth....and courtesy from the lips of Man?" the Sidhe Lord cried in mock-disbelief. "Stop, stop, Greagoir, I beg of thee! In the space of a few moments thou art threatening to topple a wall of mistrust between Elves and Men that has taken long ages to build!" Placing a hand on my shoulder, the Sidhe Lord said, "If that truly is what thou wishest, Scribe of the Islands, then we shall grant it most willingly!"


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER VII: **_**In the Land of the Sidhe**_

Freed from the pitiless grip of the cruel mercenaries, the grateful survivors of the caravan offered unto the Dark Elves their entire herd of horses in repayment for saving their lives, but MorThoiriol would accept only a tithing as just compensation for his kin's efforts; whereon he chose thirty magnificent stallions from among the herd, and then he said to the men: "Great shall be the suffering of the widows and the children of the dead, yet thine own toil and pain on this long journey northward was equally trying; therefore, keep the balance of this herd and take what portion of the profit thou deemest fair, and divide the remaining shares among the families of those who shall not be returning home. For those who gave their lives for this doomed enterprise deserve no less than those that survived."

The members of the caravan, hearing the wisdom and charity of the Sidhe Lord's words, promised to fulfill his wishes upon their return home (and so they did, quite faithfully!). With preparations finally completed, the caravan and its great herd wound its way south towards the Trade Route with tearful cries of farewell and thanks as they passed us. As for me, I stood alongside Findegal, watching the long train of wagons amble across the plains. As the last wain drifted past, I saw, yoked and shackled with irons, Marfach-Suil and his haggard mercenaries straggling behind in a dispirited line. The former caravan-master glared angrily at me and spat, and then roared in his guttural tongue that he would kill me if ever we met again. I merely smiled and thumbed my nose at him, which caused Marfach to explode into a long tirade of curses that continued until the caravan at last faded to a distant speck along the horizon.

With the caravan out of sight, the Dark Elves, too, made ready for their journey north. I remember little of that great riding, as the Dark Elves effortlessly guided their herd northward; for it was a strange phenomenon among the Elves that time itself seemed to blur, and the Elves and their magnificent beasts seemingly never tired or required rest. I do recall the great plains giving ground to woodlands, first in scattered stands of trees, then eventually surrendering to forest altogether; but how many nights it took us to reach this place, I cannot tell.. A few of the Dark Elves left the group then to guide the herd on a separate path to guarded pastures beyond the great woods, for we had come at last to the shadowy realm of the Sidhe.

A forest primeval, vast as Rhovanion, but older still, stretched before us as far as the eye could see. Great stands of trees bristled nearly to the hoary head of the Orocarni Mountains in the west, cascading in profusion downwards in spiny ridges to mask treacherous chasms and hidden vales pocking the mountain's feet below, and then marching in seemingly endless procession for endless leagues to the east. I felt honored that the Sidhe had not seen fit to blindfold me, for they were ever secretive of their land; but it mattered little, for the path they led me on was bewildering and the air was thick with their enchantments.

We passed through dark glades lined with blackthorn, juniper, hemlock and towering fir, with the sun barely winking from above; along the edges of deep crevasses and gulleys where tormented, near-leafless trees stretched their wizened limbs upward from the abyss, grasping desperately for a share of elusive sunlight; over misty moors carpeted with gorse, ivy and foxglove; and plunged into sudden valleys where the trees were strange and black and whispered malevolently, and I rode in great fear. If it were not for the Orocarnis looming ever to my left, I would be utterly lost; as it was I had no idea how far north we had traveled, or how many days we journeyed. But for all its twists and turns, the trail led ever upward and the air grew thinner and the mountains grew ominously closer.

Ever and anon, we were greeted by Elvish sentries at strategic points along the trail. So cleverly were they concealed that I am sure the saying 'coming out of the woodwork' was coined in their honor. Passing the last of these guards, our path led eventually to a great bluff where stood a copse of ancient mountain oak, trees hallowed by the Sidhe. Venerable were their massive boles, hoary and burled and moss-covered, and their great heavy limbs seemed to carry the weight of the burning blue sky that hung above them. As if in reverence, we dismounted and passed through their midst on foot, leading our horses behind us. At the far end of the sacred grove, we were greeted by a sheer drop-off and a wide glen below. Lush and deep was this mountain valley, yet shrouded around its circumference by a canopy of trees so dense, that it was virtually invisible to the eye, unless one were right on top of it (or had nearly fallen in, as I did).

"I bid thee welcome to the Vale of the House of the Great Eagle of the East," Findegal said to me in a near whisper, "the longhome of the kin of Mor-Thoir-Iolar."Many glens and dales such as this lay hidden along the mountainside, each belonging to a different House of the Sidhe."

I nodded absent-mindedly to Findegal's greeting, for at the moment I was more concerned for my own well-being; specifically, how could I, or my horse for that matter, possibly climb down such a steep incline? To my surprise, the Dark Elves mounted their steeds, and without hesitation took the plunge off the cliff. Gasping, I gazed over the lip of the cliff, and to my bedevilment saw that they were riding along a stone ledge that wound downwards along edge of the canyon. So cunningly was this road devised, that it blended completely with the rock face of the chasm, and only at just the right angle could one see that it was there at all! I don't know whether this was merely a trick of the eye, or some spell conjured by the Sidhe, but this illusion made my head swoon with dizziness, and I made the descent with my eyes closed, praying my horse had more sense than I (which, fortunately, he did).

Having safely reached the floor of the vale, I heaved a great sigh of relief, and was at last able to take stock of my surroundings. The Elvish maids I happened to pass were stunningly beautiful, so much so that I found myself blushing whenever one came near. Findegal, who acted as my guide amongst the Sidhe, found my discomfort very amusing; but with a smile, he explained that Elvish females, at least those who were without children, were expected to take their turns on sentry duty, and even join the males in battle if dire need required it. He also stated that Elvish children were taught the use of the bow and knives at an early age, for such was the sad state of the world that even children were victims of war. But for all that, I noticed that the Elves doted on their children, and I learned quickly that the extended family or clan was the single-most important aspect of Elvish life.

These large families of Dark Elves were part of greater Kindreds, or Houses, ruled by a patriarch or lord, and these Houses lived within the confines of their separate valley enclaves for most of the year. But winters in the north were cruel so hard by the mountains, and though the sorcery of the Sidhe was great, they could not control the whims of the weather; yet even so, they held, by some hidden grace, the will to maintain the green fertility of their hidden vales for seasons longer than the world outside their domain. Thus, for only a short while every year, the Sidhe must remove to the mountain fastness of the Orocarnis to take up their abode.

For the Sidhe had delved a great mansion deep in the hidden recesses of the mountains as a winter retreat, and which they maintained for use in times of grave peril as well. Unlike their Dwarvish neighbors to the south, who spent the majority of their lives underground, the Elves did so only out of necessity, not caring to spend any great length of time sundered from the sun. But Findegal said the Elves made these caverns habitable by growing such greenery that could tolerate limited sunlight, and adorning the bleak rock with colorful tapestries; and everywhere was the rich glow of polished wood to warm the drabness of their winter manse. But the Sidhe constructed no buildings of stone or wood, save perhaps for cellars to store meat and other foodstuffs, or the smithies where they forged their steel; preferring instead to dwell amongst the crowns of the tall, silvery-white birches that filled their valleys.

Thus, they built wondrous homes upon _ardans_ or flets, wide stands mounted high up in the great boughs of the trees, inaccessible from the ground except by retractable stairs or ladders. In addition, sturdy bridges of rope and plank were slung from tree to tree, so that the Elves could traverse from one end of the valley to the other without ever once setting foot on the ground. Marvelous were the structures they wove atop these ardans -- the antechambers, living quarters, communal dining areas, and meeting halls -- more intricate than great bird's nests, interlacing the boughs, branches and leaves of the living birch into walls and ceilings that were proof against the foulest weather. For the Dark Elves would suffer neither a thriving tree to be cut down nor a leafy branch hewn; only harvesting the wood of fallen timber as an act of remembrance for dear, departed friends.

As night fell, Findegal introduced me to Baird-Riordan, the great Seanchai of the Sidhe. He was both bard and chronicler of the Dark Elves, committing to memory all the ages of history of his kindred. For the Sidhe, unlike their western cousins, had never felt the necessity to devise a written language; they had knowledge of the Cirth runes of the Dwarves, but did not feel compelled to use them; more so since they despised the Dwarves. Riordan had the same ancient depth to his gray eyes as MorThoiriol, and I discovered that he, like the Sidhe Lord, had passed from Cuifhiainan over the Orocarni Mountains in the earliest days of Middle-earth. Findegal bade me farewell then, leaving me in the good keeping of Riordan, for the Seanchai would be the one to illuminate the noble and savage tale of the Sidhe.

I spoke with Riordan long into the night, gathering valuable insights on Sidhe society. The more I listened, the more I came to understand there was a paradoxical nature within the character of the Sidhe. This was a culture of extremes: never forgetting an act of courtesy, never forgiving a slight; reverent of tree and horse, yet taking the scalps of their fallen foes; highly moral, with a hatred of injustice and treachery, yet inclined to cattle and horse thievery; fair of speech and deed, but brutal in the prosecution of war; and loving of their children, yet ever feuding with their neighbors. At first I considered this strange duality to be a symptom of their immortality, for their acuity of sight and hearing, as well as their physical prowess, was heightened far beyond the strengths of mortal Men; could it not be then that their emotions, too, were subject to extremes? That in them the flame of eternal youth burned so brightly, that it ever kindled their passions and drove them to excess?

But as Riordan related the long tale of the Sidhe, it became more apparent that great sorrow and tragedy drove the Dark Elves to such extravagant means of expression. They had been sundered from their kin, cruelly driven from the lands of their birth, and fenced in by their enemies. Ever on the defensive and ever mindful of deceit, they beheld through the slow turning of ages the ebb and flow of the Dark Lords' corruptive influence on the East, and the tides of war that ever surged against their borders. The realm of the Sidhe is like unto an ancient island, evergreen and enchanted, wherein lies the last living memory of the Elder Days in the East; but this lonely isle has been cast adrift in a turbulent sea of change, wherein short-lived empires founder and new ones rise and build their brief ramparts on the crumbling foundations of the old.


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER VIII: **_**Of Cuifhiainan and the Sundering of the Elves**_

Greagoir frowned sadly and laid his chin upon his chest. "I grow weary, Tatya, so weary," the scribe mumbled to his apprentice. "I have given you a reprieve, but now it is time for you to take up the story. Fetch me my pipe and light it, if you would."

Tatya shrugged in defeat. The apprentice retrieved the master's pipe -- an intricately carved affair made of briarwood -- with a bowl shaped into the likeness of a fierce dragon, whose trailing, scaled tail was the long pipe-stem. Greagoir claimed it was made in a village called Bree, by Hobbits, or Halflings, or some other such race Tatya was quite sure he would never see in his lifetime. Carefully packing the bowl, Tatya wished that pipeweed had never been discovered. It seemed that some trade mission to the West had brought the plant back to Marannan-astair many years ago. Finding that the weed, called Nicotiana, proved easy to cultivate in the moist, warm soil of the island, the merchants and Ship-lords, ever seeking a means to expand commerce, began to exploit the addictive properties of the weed, and exported it in great bulk to the khanates and petty-princedoms along the Gold Coast, where its effects were highly prized. Now there was hardly anywhere on the island where one could go without seeing the plant being grown, harvested or cured.

Tatya lit the pipe hastily, dreading the taste of the stuff, and quickly handed it to his master, who began puffing away quite merrily. It was the one great vice Greagoir still clung to stubbornly in his old age, and the gray beard about his mouth and his moustache were stained a permanent yellow from the smoke (another reason to avoid the foul weed, Tatya thought). Seemingly lost in reminiscences, the master clenched the mouthpiece thoughtfully between his teeth, allowing languid wisps of smoke to trail aimlessly about his head, like the shapes of faded spirits seeking audience with a necromancer.

"Read for me of _Cuifhiainan_, Tatya," Greagoir said absently, "from the notes of my dialogue with the great Baird-Riordan, Seanchai of the Sidhe. My only wish is that I had the text of the story written by the Elves of the West, so as to compare the two. But I am old now, and very tired; and it has been many years since I heard the tale..so many years..."

Tatya had hoped that his master would doze off then, but, sadly, that was not the case. So the disgruntled apprentice picked up the volume of notes, written in Greagoir's bold scrawl, and began his recitation:

There was the faintest murmur of wind on water rippling, gently whispering in their ears, and they stirred. Opening their eyes they beheld the fiery stars -- countless in their glittering -- kindling the twilight canopy that lay overhead, and they were aware. Thus were the Firstborn roused from timeless sleep along the starlit mere of _Cuifhiainan_, the Water of Awakening, when the world was young. And in aftertimes it has been said the gaze of the Elves were thence ever lifted skyward, for they hallowed the starlight, their first sight in the waking world; but the sound of water, of sea-breeze on the waves, stirs a wistful yearning in their hearts, calling to them as if from a dream.

The Elves rose from the shadows of the Great Sleep of _Ardan_, rubbing their eyes as those newly-wakened from a brief rest, and their eyes thirstily drank in all that they might see. Curiosity grew apace with the Elves' newborn thirst for knowledge, and they set about to explore their darkling world, so wondrous and beautiful. Language they devised, the first speech of Middle-earth, and the Elves delighted in giving names to each new thing they encountered, whether the birds of the air, or the animals of the forest, or the plants and trees. Many things that slumbered still in the Great Sleep were wakened at that time by the sound of Elvish laughter, and the Firstborn taught speech to those things that had the capacity to learn from them. And the tranquil morning of Cuifhiainan was filled with a stirring and a great flowering, and everywhere there was abundance and peace beneath the starry skies of evernight.

And so the Elves flourished in their solitude, content for a long age, and grew strong of stature and mind along the twilit mere; and they danced and sang upon the white sands of its shore, or wandered deep into dark forests in search of new life, or scaled the lofty peaks to the east, or merely sat rapt in silent reverie by tranquil ponds splashed by effervescent falls; and Cuifhiainan proved to be all things joyful and marvelous to them. And yet their joy proved even greater, for in the noontide of their bliss were born the first children of the Elder race; and the Elves rejoiced in the giving of life, for they now had cherished offspring to share with them the wonders of the infancy of their race.

But such is the sad tale of Middle-earth that peace and happiness may last a day, or a season, or even an age, but naught can last forever within the bounds of Ardan; and so it was with the bliss of Cuifhiainan. The one they name _Morgadh_ the Corrupter, Dark Enemy of the World and its most ancient Evil, heard at last from his spies of the waking of the Elves and their blessed contentment along the twilit mere. Long had Morgadh sought for the Elves, wishing to ensnare them with his deceits, or destroy them if he must, before the _Bailard_, the Lord Protectors of Ardan, discovered their existence.

For Morgadh was once a kindred spirit of the Bailard before the shaping of _Ardan_, The World That Is, but his jealousy and will to dominate all things in Ardan caused the Bailard to expel him from their order and banish him from _Bailleaniar_, the Blessed Realm of the West. Morgadh hated the Bailard for this, and ever did he attempt to mar the things of beauty the Bailard created or hallowed; and he hated the Elves, whom the Bailard waited for with great anticipation, for the Elves were to be firstborn and greatest of the peoples of Middle-earth, imbued with the spirit of _Aeru_, The One, the creator of all things; and though the Bailard were great, they were merely vassals of Aeru, governing Ardan in his stead, and ever did they obediently seek to fulfill his designs.

Morgadh then set a watch about Cuifhiainan, and he sent forth grim shadows to haunt the hills above the mere, and grisly, fanged beasts he loosed in the forests; and these sinister shades and warped things waylaid unsuspecting Elves, and devoured or enslaved them -- taking them whither no one shall ever know. The Elves were disheartened and dismayed, for a nameless fear stalked them in the darkness, and they dared not venture far from the safety of their kindred. Many there were of the Elves who sang no more, for sorrow choked their voices, and Cuifhiainan was ever diminished at the loss of their songs; yet other Elves arose in anger, for in the blaze of their youth they were undaunted by these nightstalkers. Fearlessly they went out to hunt these vile beasts, and sentries were set against the hills to guard against the encroachments of the enemy; but such efforts proved of little avail, for the minions of Morgadh swarmed into the hinterlands. Still there were those Elves who labored unceasingly against the onslaught, whether their cause was hopeless or not; and some became overproud of their achievements, and loved too much the land of their birth. A time would come when these fiercely independent Elves would make rash decisions, blinded by their pride, to their own ruin and the sorrow of many.

It was in that time of despair and turmoil the Elves first heard the great horn of _Araugh_ resounding over hill and hollow. Some of the Elves feared this was the dire trumpeting of yet another shadow-hunter sent to prey on them; but many believed this was not so, for the mighty clarion call uplifted their spirits, and seemed to lighten the darkness which enshrouded them. And the bravest of the Elves, as if summoned by the call, went forth to seek the source of the heavy horn blasts. To the Elves' wonderment, they beheld that it was Araugh the Hunter, new come from the Blessed Realm unto the eastern lands of Ardan. The noble Huntsman of the Bailard shone spectrally in the starlight, all in bejeweled mail a' glittering, and he rode astride _Naihaer Gan Athair_, the father of all horses, whose hooves sparked with golden light as he pounded across the stony fields.

Araugh felt boundless joy in having at last discovered the Elves, and he came among them as a shepherd who had long sought for his lost flock. Many seasons did he tarry on the shores of Cuifhiainan with the Elves, sharing what knowledge was useful to them. But even though there was much gladness in their meeting, and with the long seasons he spent among the Elves, Araugh's heart remained troubled. The dreaded creatures of Morgadh had all fled from Araugh's wrathful countenance, and the bliss of the Elves returned for a time while Cuifhiainan was under his guardianship -- that much was was true; but well Araugh knew the shadows would lengthen and the terror return once he passed into the West. Therefore, he deemed it wise to seek council with his Bailard brethren, and devise a means to assure the long-term peace and safety of the Elves. With this in mind, Araugh bade farewell to the Elves -- if but for a short time -- and astride mighty Naihaer, he flew with _winged speed_ into the West and to the Undying Lands, crossing the Shadowy Sea as if it were but a middling stream.

At Araugh's urging, a great council of the Bailard was called, and they were summoned from the depths of the sea, and from the limitless sky, and from the very roots of Ardan itself, to discuss the plight of the Elves. And the Bailard met in the Ring of Doom, the circle of fate wherein all matters of the greatest import are adjudged by the Bailard. In the furthermost west it lies, nigh on the dark shores of heaven itself, where earth at last meets the horizon. Within the Ring Araugh spoke for the Elves, recalling their dire peril and of the ever growing menace of Morgadh, who would soon enslave and destroy the Elves if left unchecked. So impassioned was Araugh's plea on the Elves' behalf that many of the council were moved to tears. Thus stirred to pity for the Firstborn -- more so because they greatly desired to see them -- the Bailard deigned that the Elves should be brought to Bailleaniar; therein to dwell under the protection of the Bailard, and to share with them the eternal bliss of the Blessed Realm.

But _Tulcathas_ the Strong, Araugh's brother, declared that the Bailard should go further to restrain Morgadh. Too long had that ancient corrupter arrogantly flaunted his evil will while the Bailard sat idly by, safe beyond the cares of Ardan. Now was it time for them to reclaim their own; therefore, Tulcathas demanded the Bailard should make war upon Morgadh immediately. For this course of action the hot-tempered Araugh was of like-mind, as were others on the council; and so it was that the Bailard and their vassals girded for war. The onset of their invasion was swift, and Morgadh's forces were consumed as if by fire, for the Bailard's wrath was great. To the northern wastes of Ardan the Bailard and their hosts marched, unto the very walls of _Uthuamhano_, Morgadh's great fortress of fear, there to lay siege and draw out the Evil One. But Morgadh, who had been caught off guard by the Bailard's initial attack, would not surrender without a furious effort. Thus from the hidden pits and lairs of Uthuamhano were vomited forth Morgadh's vast reserves, and in their train were many _Baolruaigs_, warrior-demons of terror corrupted to Morgadh's service before Ardan's forming.

No news came to Cuifhiainan of the great and terrible war, save for the horrible tumults that rocked the earth, and the reek of war that blighted the skies to the north and swallowed the stars with ghastly smokes. But though the Elves knew naught of the wrathful war, neither Morgadh nor his servants ever forgot that it was fought on the Elves' behalf. For Morgadh was assailed on all sides by the divine might of the Bailard, and his ramparts and towers were rent asunder, and his legions destroyed or fled; and at the last Tulcathas the Strong did drag the cowering Morgadh out of Uthuamhano by the scruff of the neck, and threw him on his face before the Lords of the West. There Morgadh was forced to humble himself, and ignobly sue for mercy at the feet of the victorious Bailard; but the very source of all evil in Middle-earth was shown no pity, and he was bound in enchanted irons and taken captive back to Bailleaniar. For a long age of Ardan Morgadh was held prisoner in the Undying Lands; but though there was peace for a time, the Bailard had not laid bare all the hidden vaults and subterranean lairs of Uthuamhano, 'ere they razed it to the ground; and many of Morgadh's minions, including his greatest lieutenants, escaped the wreck and eluded capture.

Then did Araugh the Hunter return to Cuifhiainan, summoning the Elves to join him on the journey back to Bailleaniar. But whether through fear of the unknown or love of their homeland, most of the Elves were loathe to leave the starlit mere; therefore Araugh chose three of the Firstborn, _Ingui, Fionnui and Ealui_, each the chieftain of a large Elvish House, and took them to bear witness to the splendor of the Blessed Realm. When the three at last rejoined their kindreds they proclaimed that Bailleaniar was all that Araugh said it would be, and more; and it was through their earnest testimonials and prompting that a greater part of their Houses chose to leave. Yet such was the doubt that remained among the Elves that many were still undecided about leaving, and some refused the summons altogether. Such a one was Ingloir, a chieftain among the Firstborn.

Ingloir it was who first set out to trap the beasts and spies of Morgadh in the times before Araugh came amongst the Elves. Many of the Elves claimed that Ingloir had no fear in him (and many more said that was not necessarily a good thing), but he had grown powerful and his House was great amongst the Elves. In earlier days Ingloir had been a favorite of Araugh, having been one of the first Elves to greet the Bailard when first he came to Cuifhianian, and he went often with Araugh on hunts in the deepest of the ancient forests. Much he learned from the Huntsman of the Bailard in the ways of tracking and of combat, and some say too much, for Ingloir envied Araugh's bright spear and his great sword and his shining shield and helm. In secret, Ingloir and his kinsmen learned the art of weaponscraft, mining the ore from the mountains to the East, and great store of razor-sharp spears, long bows, and lofty helms they hoarded away. Now, secure in his House's strength and trusting in his own wisdom and valor, Ingloir spoke openly against the summons.

"Why should we, the people of the Firstborn, seek for the far country of the Bailard, and surrender without a fight these lands so many of our own have died to keep?" Ingloir demanded. "Behold! We no longer have Morgadh to harass us, for the Bailard have imprisoned their own, which is as it should be! As for the Bailard, who among you wishes to be allotted a mean strip of land in Bailleanar, and come and go only by the leave of the Lords of the West? However kindly their intentions seem, I choose not that yoke; more so since it is said that perhaps the Bailard plan to deliver up our land to the Aftercomers -- a sickly race of usurpers -- who, it is told, shall rise as soon as we depart! No, I shall not answer the summons; here in starlight I awoke, and here I shall stay till the darkness of death take me!"

And many of the Elves were swayed by Ingloir's proud and rebellious words, for they had not yet heard of this mortal race that was to come and rule in their stead, and great was the clamor and anger amongst them. But when Araugh heard of these rumors, he was saddened and wrathful, for in these lies he heard the deceits of Morgadh still at work, though he was a prisoner of the Bailard. Yet in no way would Araugh seek to dissuade those Elves who chose to stay, deeming that forceful denials and attempts to cajole them would cause further mischief. But Araugh did have stern words for the scornful and misguided Ingloir, reminding the Elf of their longstanding friendship and alliance, and Ingloir did repent of his wrongful accusations against the Bailard. But though he no longer spoke openly against the summons, Ingloir's heart was still set, and he stubbornly refused to follow Araugh into the West.

Bitter was the parting when at last Araugh guided the kindreds of Ingui, Fionnui and Ealui from Cuifhiainan, for some that departed wished to stay, and others who remained yearned to leave. So distressing was this sundering that the greater part of the Elves of Ealui's clan tarried overlong, and had to wait for vassals of Araugh to return and guide them forward once again. Even in the House of Ingloir there was dissension, for the chieftain's own son, Ilrin, spoke often in favor of answering the summons during the councils of his father; for the kin of Fionnui were dear to Ilrin, and he wished not to be parted from them. At last in anger Ingloir upbraided Ilrin, deeming that his son wished to supplant him in the favor and stewardship of his kindred, and he demanded Ilrin's loyalty.

Saddened by such mistrust, and for such a hateful rebuke, Ilrin replied, "Father, I cannot give thee more than that which thou already have in full measure."

But Ingloir's heart had grown hard with pride, and his son's desire to depart into the West with Fionnui's folk he took as a personal affront. "Proofs I will have!" Ingloir charged of his son. "For it is clear that thou wishest to draw off the greater strength of our Kindred and lead them hence to Bailleaniar!"

Ilrin knelt before his father, and replied, "What proofs dost thou seek? How can a son prove his love and fealty to his father? Thou hast only to name it."

"I will hear an oath taken, Ilrin," Ingloir said coldly, "a vow to the stars in the heavens that thou shalt neither lead any of our folk from Cuifhiainan into the West, nor shalt thou depart alone from this place in search of the kin of Fionnui."

Bitterly did Ilrin rue making such a vow, and bitter were the fruits of his decision; but for the love of his father, Ilrin bowed to his will. Yet ever after Ilrin may have loved his father, but his respect for Ingloir cooled. Ilrin was a wise leader of Elves, and he was a seer when the mood struck him on a sudden, and he knew much that was hidden. Through foreknowledge, Ilrin perceived that the realm of Cuifhiainan would not last, and though Morgadh may be captive, many of his vassals were not, and they would seek out this place and destroy it if they could. But nothing could Ilrin do for the seeming madness that had overtaken his father, nor could he stave off the inevitable doom he foresaw. And so it was in the end that Ilrin broke his vow to save his people; but he led them to the east and not to the west.


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER IX: **_**The Death March of the Dark Elves**_

When the last straggling remnants of the three Kindreds of Elves had finally departed on the path set by Araugh, an age of peace came once again to Cuifhiainan. Although this peace brought the Elves freedom from fear -- for Morgadh still was a hostage in Bailleaniar, and his minions were scattered -- it did not bring tranquility to the hearts of the Firstborn. The Waters of Awakening were still pure and calm, and the same stars shone eternally bright and sparked to glittering the white sands of Cuifhiainan's shore, but the joy of the Elves was shrouded in melancholy as the long shadows of loved ones forever departed cast a pall along the twilit mere. Yet ever and anon Elves returned, having forsaken the long western march, and great were the celebrations for these prodigal sons and daughters; and for a little while the veil of tears was lifted.

For many years wayward Elves would find their way home again, either singly or in small groups, tired and bewildered from their long trips abroad. Recounting their journey, they spoke of wandering across endless plains, passing through a vast forest, and fording a great river; but a range of mist-shrouded peaks nearly as massive as the _Orruacarnai_ Mountains blocked their westward advance. And they said that some of the kindred of Ealui had given up the march altogether, neither moving forward nor returning to Cuifhiainan, choosing instead to live along the great river. But these tales of tribulation became more ominous as the years advanced, and fewer and fewer Elves returned, until finally none came back at all. And the last few who managed to flee the darkness spoke of nameless terrors returning to the plains, and grim shades stalking them nigh up to the marches of Cuifhiainan itself.

For, as was told, the Bailard did not rout out all the secret lairs of Uthuamhano when they sacked Morgadh's labyrinthine northern fortress. Many great evils escaped that should have been destroyed or imprisoned along with their master. Of these the greatest of all was he that is unnamed by the Sidhe, for his name is a curse that no words can define, nor voice should utter; but in the common speech he is called Sauron, the first lieutenant of Morgadh, and privy to all the Dark Lord's most evil machinations. And if in those days he was any less evil than Morgadh, then it was only by degree, as he had yet to assume his master's overlordship. But the Sidhe account he who is both nameless and accursed as their bitterest enemy: a thief, an assassin, the slayer of innocents, and corruption incarnate.

Now Sauron was at first dismayed by the Bailard's wrath, and the utter defeat of Morgadh. He cravenly hid while his master was chained and dragged off to Bailleaniar, and for a long while he remained in the shadows, unwillingly to come forth for fear of the Bailard's swift retribution. But Sauron learned a valuable lesson then, one that he would exploit often in ages to come: the Bailard may be mighty and fearsome in their wrath, but their anger cools all too quickly, and they eventually surrender everything they have conquered, neglecting that which they sought to protect. So it was that Sauron, perceiving the Bailard had once again forsaken Middle-earth, took up the mantle of his master and began to reorder Morgadh's shattered empire. _Angabhann_, once merely an outpost of Uthuamhano, Sauron enlarged and heavily fortified, imbuing the very stone with his sorcerous malice; and as the Captain of Angabhann, he did summon all of Morgadh's scattered forces unto him. The denizens of the deep places and the shadows of corruption swarmed to Sauron like malevolent moths to a dark flame, filling Angabhann with such dread that the former terrors of Uthuamhano soon paled in comparison.

Then did Sauron stretch the first, furtive tendrils of his evil grasp about the unsuspecting peoples of Ardan, and horrid beasts and Orc began to multiply like flies and returned to their old haunts. But Ingloir was now Lord of Cuifhiainan, master of a large and thriving Elvish population, and great strength of weapons had he amassed in the long peace of Morgadh's captivity. Easily Ingloir repelled Angabhann's first incursions, which were but calculating feints, as Sauron was merely biding his time, awaiting the return of his master.

For the age of Morgadh's imprisonment was drawing to a close, but of his escape and the evils he wrought in Bailleaniar, little is known save rumor. But it is said that when Morgadh at last set foot again in Middle-earth, Sauron sent forth a great host against Cuifhiainan, deeming that the Elves of the starlit mere were beyond the aid of the Bailard or their kindred in the west of Middle-earth. From thence onward, Cuifhiainan was assailed on all sides by the might of Morgadh, and Sauron himself conducted the siege. For the Waters of Awakening were a symbol of goodness in the world, and of the might of the Bailard, who strove against the Evil Powers to protect the Firstborn who dwelt upon its shores; and neither Sauron, nor Morgadh his master, would suffer such a token of their defeat and humiliation to be left inviolate.

Thus Sauron bore down on Cuifhiainan with all his malevolence, but Ingloir and his people were valiant, and they defended their birthplace with unmatched ferocity. Ilrin, Lord Ingloir's son, knew well that such resistance was futile, and that the destruction of Cuifhiainan was drawing nigh. But Ilrin's council was of little avail in that time of peril, for Ingloir would not forsake the lands he now lorded over, having become arrogant and overconfident of his strength; and he held Ilrin to his vow that none should leave Cuifhiainan, even to the last of their kindred.

Ingloir then chastised his son, and bade him return to battle, saying, "Unsheathe thy sword, gentle son, in hopes that the clash of cold steel shall relieve thee of thy timidity. Get thee gone and seek out our enemies, lest ye be branded craven and our House mocked!"

But Ilrin was no coward; on the contrary, he was esteemed greatly among the Elves for his valor and feats of arms. Yet bravery in battle is mere vainglory when wisdom is abandoned for foolhardiness: Cuifhiainan was invested by an implacable foe and there would be no relief, for Araugh was gone and he had taken the greatest strength of the Elves with him into the West. In despair, Ilrin refuted his father's bidding, and in secret he sought for hidden paths that led up to the Orruacarnai Mountains, harboring hopes that, at the end of all things, some of his kindred might still be saved.

But some say Morgadh grew impatient of the siege, for war was brewing in the west, and he was in need of all his forces to quell this new invasion. Thus Sauron withdrew his Orcs, ever the fodder of the Dark Lord's legions, and instead unleashed an army of nightmares: Baolruaigs there were, and with them their vassals, the Scathantine, ancient fire demons; Scanraithes and Grims, the shadow-walkers of old, drifted disembodied and ghoulish in the wreak; and were-beasts, twisted creatures fed Elvish flesh by the hand of Sauron himself, howled and shrieked in rabid fury. So horrific was the onslaught that the Elvish defenses were thrown back with great loss, and everywhere Elves ran this way and that in fear and confusion. But still the center of the Elvish line held, for there stood Lord Ingloir with his son, Ilrin, and others of his household at this side. But Ingloir beheld the collapse of his army, consumed by fire and shadow, and he perceived his own folly at last.

"Without purpose, save for blind ambition and pride, have I ensnared the lives of my kin!" Ingloir shouted to Ilrin; but as one without hope, he added, "Yet let it not be said that my death should prove purposeless as well!"

And Ingloir commanded that Ilrin should muster what Elves he could, and set up a second line of defense farther to the east; meanwhile, Ingloir would take a picked force to attack Sauron's fiery legions directly, and thus provide a screen for Ilrin's movements. Ilrin gazed into his father's eyes and saw that death was written in them, for Ingloir was fey and beyond reasoning; therefore, Ilrin bade a tearful farewell to Ingloir, knowing well that this was their final parting within the circles of the world. As Ilrin prepared for his withdrawal, he watched Ingloir rush headlong with his sortie against the enemy lines, a small but shining group of Elves silhouetted against innumerable foes. There was an audible concussion as the Elves hit the enemy's line and a great spout of flame; and though the legions of Sauron reeled from the sudden assault, Ingloir and his band were slowly engulfed and soon disappeared beneath the crush of many Baolruaigs. Thus ended Ingloir, the first and last Lord of Cuifhiainan -- the proud master thus mastered by pride.

Then Ilrin did indeed order a retreat towards the east, and gathered what Elves he could to him, both hale or wounded; yet he had no intention of fighting for a lost cause. Guiding his kindred along the secret paths he had prepared, Ilrin came upon the place where the women and children lay hid, and he bade them move out ahead of the warriors, so that they might be protected more easily. Ilrin and the remaining members of his household made up the rearguard as the Elvish procession began its painfully slow march towards the Orruacarnai Mountains, which were several leagues from the mere of Cuifhiainan. Behind them they could hear the bellows of victory and the guttural laughter and cursing of the victorious as Sauron's hosts flooded the blessed plain and tramped across the white sands. But to the misfortune of the Elves, their retreat had been espied from far-off, and even now they were being chased.

But the long train of Elves could not be made to go any faster, for there were many battle-wounded and very young children among them, but Ilrin would suffer none to be left behind; thus, the hunters Sauron had sent against the retreating Elves advanced upon them very rapidly. Within a league of the mountains, Sauron's forces at last caught up with them, and Ilrin and the rearguard were forced to turn and fight their foe. Six times did the rearguard turn and meet the enemy advance, and six times did they drive them back; yet each time with greater losses among the Elves than the one previous, for Sauron's minions were far more numerous and had the scent of blood in their noses. Yet when the rearguard turned a seventh time, the women and children had already began to scramble up the mountainside; and Ilrin would give no more ground. Many of the wounded Elves refused to make the climb, preferring to stand by Ilrin as best they may in hopes of defending the pass so that their loved ones might escape.

And the noble stand of the Firstborn along the slopes of the Orruacarnais is renowned among the Sidhe, although it is recounted with great sadness. There fell Faolar and his brother Faolin, ripped to pieces by were-wolves; and Curumair the Fisher, burned alive by Scathantine demons; Fiannur, Forgrinn and Eolard the Wise slew a towering Baolruaig, the leader of the raiding party, but they were themselves slain, crushed beneath the toppling beast's massive weight. At the last, Ilrin had less than three-hundred of his exhausted kindred surrounding him, and of his household, only Riordan the Bard and Amhran the Minstrel were still standing; but there were none among them who were unscathed or did not suffer some grievous wound.

Undaunted, the Elves dug in atop a wide, rocky tor with their spears bristling outward in every direction. Encircling the slopes below them lay such great heaps of their fallen foes, that it seemed the hill they stood on was formed of piled corpses. There the Elves awaited the final massed charge of Sauron's army, holding little hope now that their wives, sons and daughters would escape the massacre; and even less hope did they keep for themselves, surrounded as they were by the ravenous army of Sauron.

But even in his darkest dreams Sauron could never fathom or portend an event of such magnitude that it would steal ultimate victory from him at the very moment it lay within his grasp; yet such a thing occurred. On a sudden, even as the triumphal army of Sauron clamored for the final, fatal charge, a silvery light bathed the skies along the western horizon. As the sheen mounted, it grew brighter than any star in the heavens; and in that desperate hour came the first rising of the full moon, whose luminous face was radiant white, with dark, argent eyes that followed the thralls of Morgadh no matter where they hid. And Sauron's army was thrown into disarray, and they shrieked and ran about gibbering in fear, believing the Lords of the West were come in their divine wrath to destroy them once and for all. Still cowering and covering their faces, they retreated back to Cuifhiainan, and the relative safety of Sauron's main force, leaving Ilrin and the Elves alone and astounded atop their forsaken tor.

Rejoicing, Ilrin deemed the rising of the moon was indeed a sign of the might of the Bailard, and an omen of good fortune for the Elves. But as he gazed down upon the vale of Cuifhiainan from his promontory rock, the smile faded from his lips. For in the spectral moonlight he beheld in horror the utter destruction of the land of the Firstborn: the forests were all ablaze or trampled; the once white sands of the twilight mere were covered in blood and the filth of the enemy, who in their thousands were now there encamped; and the Waters of Awakening were black and defiled, with the swollen bodies of the dead floating along its shores, for Sauron had commanded that all the corpses of the Elves should be thrown into the hallowed waters. Ilrin bowed his head and turned from the rape of Cuifhiainan, never to look back again.

Although the threat of attack was lessened, still Ilrin could not count on the fickle nature of the army of Sauron; therefore he bade the Elves start immediately the arduous climb up the mountains. Thus began the second trial of the death-march of the Dark Elves: the treacherous ascent of the Orruacarnais. With little food and no real certainty of success, Ilrin gravely took the lead and guided the remnants of the Elves of Cuifhiainan up the unforgiving slopes. The wounded and dying were carried or dragged by those who could still manage to stand, and infants and small children were cradled tightly by their worried mothers for fear of slipping off the precipices; for the western walls of the great Red Range were sheer, with few footholds, and ice and snow covering the upper third of its looming shoulders for most of the year. As they slowly picked their way upward, the wind began to shriek and assail them from every direction, and the cold was bitterly cruel. Many of the wounded Elves did not survive the first few days of the climb, and there was much lamentation in the high places of the mountains.

As they reached near two-thirds of the Orruacarnai's height, a great storm came howling down from the mountain's hoary pinnacles, a blizzard the Elves contend was conjured by the dark sorcery of Sauron, who in his malice still wished to thwart the Elves' escape. Blinded by the snow, the Elves could neither move upward nor retreat, for the drifts were heavy and the ice was treacherous. Ilrin fell into despair, cursing his father's vow that had led his kindred to such a horrid place. Soon, he feared, the children and the rest of the wounded would die from exposure, trapped there on the merciless peaks. But it came into Ilrin's thoughts that behind the angry, black clouds the innumerable stars still shone, and the newly-risen moon hung somewhere beyond the virulent storm; and Ilrin said a silent prayer to Araugh, the ancient protector of the Elves, and of old a friend to both he and his father. In answer, Ilrin believed he heard the mighty horn of the hunter resounding from the cliffs above, but in truth it was the call of a great eagle, whose shadow the Elf could descry gliding effortlessly amid the storm.

Ilrin took heart, and carefully climbed to spot where the winged raptor soared. To Ilrin's surprise, he found a massive stone ledge, and atop the ledge a deep cavern. Giving thanks to the Huntsman of the Bailard, Ilrin returned to his kindred and guided them back to the cave. There the Elves took shelter and nursed the wounded and found warmth for their children. Eventually the blizzard subsided, and the Elves with the keenest sight could discern from their lofty perch the armies of Sauron moving northward away from the desolation of Cuifhiainan. But there was no returning now to the vale of the twilit mere: long ages would pass before the land recovered from its defilement, and even then it would remain a wasteland; and the Waters of Awakening were poisoned with death, soon to be choked with foul weeds and mired with black mud -- a fen of nightmarish delirium.

The eagle returned again by the clear light of the waxing moon, leading the Elves ever upward by the safest mountain paths; but still the climb was dangerous and the air was thin, and one misstep spelled doom for the unwary. At last, through great toil and hardship, Ilrin and the Elves reached the summit of the Orruacarnais, the highest peaks of the East. The mighty eagle of the Bailard hovered above them in the high airs of Middle-earth, gliding in slow circles for a time, his massive wings spreading some thirty fathoms across. Assured that his mission was complete, the eagle left the elves then with a piercing, triumphant cry, and sped off as a shooting star into the west.

In gratitude, Ilrin paid homage to the most noble of the birds of Ardan, and there in the loftiest aerie of the world he gave himself a new name, Thoir Iolar, which signifies Eagle of the East; but his thankful kindred proclaimed him their Lord and Sovereign, and ever after called him MorThoiriol, for he was the greatest among them. And it is said that as the Elves began their descent on the far side of the Orruacarnais, the sun in all its glory kindled the eastern skies in a blaze of red and gold and orange; and the Elves beheld with wonder and joy the majestic forests and verdant vales of their new realm at the dawning of the first full day of Ardan.


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER X: **_**Of Dwarves and Drakes**_

It could have been that the Greagoir was pleased, or perhaps he was merely tired, but the master offered only a relatively few amendments to the tale while the apprentice recited (relatively few, that is, fifty rather than a hundred edits); then he fell asleep. Tatya stoked the slowly dying embers of the fire, and then threw another log on to rid himself of the pre-dawn chill. Covering himself in a sheepskin, he curled up by the hearth and began to nod. The master would soon be awakened by the sun on his face, and then demand to be taken outside for his 'morning constitutional' (if anything, the master was regular). Greagoir was still robust for his age and walked briskly with the aid of an ominous-looking black staff, supposedly a gift from a wizard named Pallando (although Tatya was never quite sure if he was serious); but on excessively rainy or cold days he was near lame (with a mood to match the foul weather), and got about haltingly with a pronounced limp in his step. As sleep finally overtook Tatya he wished he had accompanied his master on some of his high adventures, for the apprentice secretly yearned to set out and explore that wondrous world that could be only seen now through Greagoir's blind eyes; unfortunately, that was no longer possible.

Later that morning, while Tatya was doing his chores (as an indentured apprentice, he not only was assistant scrivener, but chopped wood, milked goats, made cheese and tended the garden), Greagoir, who was humming contentedly (there wasn't a cloud in the sky), called his apprentice in from pulling weeds from around the turnips. "Tatya, let that damnable garden be," the master said with a mock-scowl, "I despise turnips anyway!"

Greagoir tapped his staff in front of him, and carefully made his way to a weather-beaten wooden chair that sat in rickety neglect on the front stoop. Finding his seat with an arduous grunt, the master exclaimed, "Tatya, the tale of the Dark Elves was a tonic for my tired, old bones! Forget your chores and let us continue where we left off last night."

Tatya grinned with relief and ran to fetch his quill and parchment, and also the book of the Dark Elves lying on the master's bed. He might dislike recitation, but it was a sight better than being stabbed by thorny weeds and being eaten alive by blueflies. Besides, it was a beautiful day to do nothing, and transcribing the master's works out in the bright sunshine really was not work at all. Tatya took a seat on the stoop, but before beginning he propped his master's feet up on a stool (the master tended to doze more quickly while reclining). With his nefarious preparations complete, the apprentice took up the book and read:

Many seasons of peaceful obscurity passed for the Elves of the Sidhe in their mountain fastness. Perhaps it was that Sauron believed he had destroyed the Elves of Cuifhiainan on the frozen peaks of the Orruacarnais, or it may have been the remoteness of their location, hidden as they were in the impassable wilds of the northeast; whatever the case, the Sidhe were gratefully forgotten, thriving and secretly laying the foundations for a mighty enclave in the forested vales of the great Red Range. In that time, their realm extended to the unpopulated high-plains of Hildorien where they herded the wild scions of Naihaer Gan Athair, the immortal stallion of Araugh the Hunter, and a remarkable bond of friendship grew between the Elves and the horses.

When those Elves who were but infants during the flight from Cuifhiainan had grown to full stature, the Sidhe first noted with disdain the arrival of the stunted folk, the Dwarves, or the Khazad as they called themselves, who began delving their vast mansions in the central regions of the Orruacarnais. The Elves did not begrudge the Dwarves their dank and dreary halls, for the Sidhe made no claim on the region of the mountains where the Dwarves had chosen to live. Nevertheless, the Elves were mistrusting of these dark, secretive folk, with their strange tales of Mahal the Maker, a Bailard who is said to have formed the fathers of Dwarves from clay and spittle, and more so since, like Morgadh's evil minions, the Dwarves lived underground. Yet for all their misgivings, the Elves did not harry or harass the Dwarves, preferring to watch and ware instead. The Dwarves, for their part, cared little for the doings of the Sidhe, for they hated the trees and the forests, and they did not much care for the tall and sorcerous-seeming Elves either. So an uneasy peace ensued, with neither race having anything whatsoever to do with the other.

But while the Elves and Dwarves clung stubbornly to a creed of blessed segregation, others there were who disturbed their splendid indifference. Of Men, little was known, for they tended to avoid the forbidding mountains, choosing to travel across the wide expanses of the Hildorien plains to the south of the Orruacarnais. In large tribes or clans they came, heading ever westward; but little could Men recall of their origins, for a darkness clouded their memories. But the Elves treated Men more kindly than they did the Dwarves, for the Firstborn and the Aftercomers were much alike, and Men were not yet as faithless as they eventually would become.

And the Dark Elves took pity on the tribes of Men they chanced to meet, huddled, starving, and fearful of the night. The Elves fed and clothed these wandering bands, and taught them what speech the sickly race could understand. But these first Men were ever driven by a yearning to continue on westward, which suited the Elves fine, as they had no wish for competing kingdoms rising along their borders; therefore, the Elves treated these bands of wayward Men hospitably, but they continued to point them southwestward, to Altan dul Anoir, the great mountain pass the Elves had discovered in earlier explorations.

So it was that Men continued to pass from the East in endless migrations, in search of what, they knew not; but they made no permanent homes along the foreboding Orruacarnais. Out of the West, however, there came a terrible swarm of invaders that settled in the mountains, and caused much woe among Elves and Dwarves alike. For the West of Middle-earth was in a constant state of warfare, fed, no doubt, by the continuous influx of Men from the East; and ever did Morgadh assail the sundered Elves of the West in his quest for complete domination. But such were the fortunes of war that Morgadh's legions would sometimes be utterly routed, and his creatures driven far and wide.

It was in this long age of upheaval that the Dragons first descended like a plague on the Orruacarnais. Of the dragons, there were three orders, each a lethal variant in Morgadh's ongoing and vile breeding schemes: the oldest and most numerous of the dragon clans were the _Drochanail Nathrach_, the Worms, flightless serpents of great size and cunning; next, the _Dragunaerog Colg-Draiochts_, or Cold-drakes, of all the orders the darkest bane of the mountains, were winged serpents with poisonous venom; and last, the Draguntine Morgoradh, massive bat-winged Fire-drakes, the greatest but by far the least numerous of the dragons, whose progeny came to brood in the Orruacarnais only after Morgadh's final and utter defeat.

For many centuries the peril grew unabated, as the threat lay yet undiscovered; for the dragons chose to make their lairs on the western slopes of the mountains, where, after the rape of Cuifhiainan, the Elves never ventured again. So too, the dragons were still embroiled in the wars of Morgadh, and must ever answer the summons of the Dark Lord when need pressed him; therefore, the dragon clans had little interest in the lands east of the mountains, and it was not in their lazy nature to tax themselves overmuch with such a daunting flight above the towering spires of the Orruacarnais. But the Dwarves, whose great gates faced to the west, first felt the brunt of the dragon's fierce envy. For dragons have a voracious lust for gold, greedily hoarding all they can amass or steal, and since they neither mine nor seek to make an honest living, theft is their primary method for acquiring wealth. Thus the dragons, having heard rumor of the treasuries of the Eastern Dwarves, scaled up and down the mountainside, plundering many of the lesser manses of the minor Houses of Dwarves, and driving off or devouring the inhabitants.

But the dragons were repelled at the great iron gates of the Dwarvish halls of the Mountain King, whose greed for gold was no less than the dragons, and who was in no mood to lightly surrender his hoard into the hands of these roguish scavengers. Although the Blacklock Dwarves of the East eventually proved themselves to be lesser sons of greater sires in ages to come, they were still a formidable force in ancient times, and with their war-axes and heat-impervious masks, they stubbornly stood their ground. The DwarvenKing was prideful, and was loathe to ask for aid, but the love for his gold soon overcame the love of his dignity. With the situation becoming direr every day, the DwarvenKing at last decided to send an embassy to the Dark Elves. The DwarvenKing's mansion was vast, stretching all the way through to the further side of the mountain; thus the Dwarvish embassy essayed out from secret gates on the eastern slopes of the Orruacarnais, and headed north to the hidden vales of the Sidhe.

The Dark Elves wondered greatly at seeing a troop of Dwarves marching in great haste towards their forest realm. The Elvish Marchwardens were none too gentle in their questioning of these intruders, but little could the Elves understand of the Dwarves' guttural tongue, for the stunted folk were gruff in both speech and manner. But the Sidhe Lord was of kinder disposition in those days, and he commanded his border guards to allow them entrance into his domain, fearing that only the gravest news would send the Dwarves hence on any errand.

And MorThoiriol rode out to meet them, thereby lessening the bitterness the Dwarves felt for their rough handling by the Marchwardens. The Sidhe Lord had the Firstborn's gift of speech, and after slow and careful discussion with the Dwarves, he amazed them all by readily speaking in Khuzdul, which is the unlovely tongue of the Dwarves. Now, MorThoiriol had never seen nor heard of a _dragun_ 'ere that moment, but by the Dwarves' animated descriptions and the fear in their voices, he knew the threat to be real and the Dwarves' imminent destruction a certainty. Realizing how easily these draguns had overcome the war-like Dwarves, the Sidhe Lord also shrewdly surmised that if he did not aid the Dwarves in their time of need, what then would stop these draguns from coming over the mountain and routing out all the woodland settlements of the Elves?

Having come to this conclusion, the Sidhe Lord answered the Dwarves, "The enemies of my enemy I account as allies, and perhaps friends, if that should be thy choosing. Tell the DwarvenKing that the Sidhe Lord offers strength of arms to aid the Dwarrow-folk in ridding the mountains of these vile creatures of Morgadh."

The Dwarves looked at each other in surprise, unnerved by the unexpected generosity and noble bearing of the Elvish Prince, and they bowed so low as to sweep their beards to the ground. The leader of the embassy replied, "Honor bestowed brings honor in return! For your ready aid and gracious manner, noble Elf-lord, we Dwarrow-folk pledge bonds of eternal friendship to you and your kin."

Lord Thoiriol smiled and nodded in recognition, but with foresight answered thus: "Ever shall we accept a bond of fraternity, friend-Dwarf, but speak not an immortal vow lest ye plan to live as long as the Sidhe!"

MorThoiriol called forth a great riding of the Sidhe, and they passed southward to the eastern gates of the DwarvenKing's halls. Loathe at first were the Elves to follow the Dwarves down into their underground manse, but many of the Elves were pleasantly surprised upon entering the Dwarrow: instead of dank caverns, they beheld a light and airy space with very high ceilings, and smooth walls, with buttresses and columns richly carved. The DwarvenKing came to meet the Sidhe Lord with great pomp and flattery and the giving of gifts, but after the customary prerequisites of noble welcome had been dispensed with, a great debate ensued between the two sovereigns regarding the proper prosecution of the war. It was MorThoiriol's considered opinion that the fight must be taken to the dragons: that the beasts should be hunted in their lairs, and their broods found and destroyed; the DwarvenKing, however, preferred combat of a more defensive nature, with his fortifications buttressed by the archers of the Elves, for at this early period in their history the Dwarves were not adept with the bow. But MorThoiriol wanted no part in a protracted siege that might prove ruinous, and would certainly keep the Dark Elves too long from home.

In the end, the DwarvenKing acquiesced somewhat to MorThoiriol's battle plans, lest his kin brand him a coward; MorThoriol, meanwhile, proposed a more limited engagement, with further offensives to commence based on the success of the first attack. The Dark Elves marched out of the Dwarves' western gate, and blackened the sky with great volleys of arrows. Such was their skill that they aimed exclusively for the dragon's most vulnerable regions, their eyes, mouths, and the soft areas on either side of their breastplates underneath their forearms. In those Elder Days, the dragons were not of full stature, as the serpents of Morgadh required long ages to reach full maturity; nor had they yet accrued the impenetrable horny scale on their underbellies, and thus the stunned dragons reeled from the stinging salvos. Many dropped wounded along the bloody slopes of the mountains, where they were met by the fell axes of the Dwarves, who hewed them where they laid. The Cold-drakes were dismayed to find their ancient enemies, the Elves, pouring forth from the mountains in such great numbers, for they had only previously come upon scattered Avari, the solitary Elves, this far east; but being creatures of cunning, the Cold-drakes had enough sensibility to realize they had been outmaneuvered, and quickly flew to inaccessible peaks far out of bow range.

The Worms were unable to duplicate the Cold-drakes' aerial retreat, and neither could they escape with speed, so they stubbornly advanced with demonic ferocity upon the Elves and Dwarves, who retreated before the dragons' withering attack. Twas there, before the very gates of the DwarvenKing, a great Worm named Baolrunga met MorThoiriol, the Sidhe Lord, in single combat. Thinking he could overawe the Dark Elf with his sheer size, Baolrunga rose to his full height in the manner of a great snake about to strike, but MorThoiriol was undaunted by such a tactic of fear. The Sidhe Lord staved off Baolrunga's initial lunge with his shield, although it was shivered in two from the brutal impact; yet as the haughty Worm reared for a second strike, MorThoiriol buried his spear between a chink in the great serpent's scales. Baolrunga bellowed in pain and inchoate fury, lunging and snapping at the Sidhe Lord like a rabid dog, but the deep wound in his belly left him unable to rise again. Fearlessly, MorThoiriol leaped atop the prone dragon's head, and with all his might drove his spear into the unarmored muscle between Baolrunga's neck and the base of his skull, killing the exposed beast instantly. The Elves and Dwarves, taking heart from the Sidhe Lord's masterful display, chased the remaining Worms and slew them mercilessly wherever they slithered. Soon the carcasses of dragons great and small were strewn up and down the mountainside.

But such a great victory had unseen costs, for the clannish dragons are vengeful creatures, never forgiving and never forgetting. And although the Elves and Dwarves continued to hunt out the lairs of the beasts along the length and breadth of the north and central Orruacarnais, the Cold Drakes removed further to the south, beyond the realms of the two kindreds; and some flew back to Anghabann with the news of a great host of Elves in the East. Hearing of this stunning defeat, the immense Firedrakes bitterly cursed this Black Eagle, this Morthoron, as they assumed he was called in the Elvish tongue of the West, and made vows to the eternal darkness that they would avenge their fallen kin. But worst of all, the rumors came to Sauron himself, who gloated over the tidings in the undying malice of his black thought. He would be patient in planning the Dark Elves' destruction. He would bide his time; for such an immortal evil has time in endless measure.


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER XI: **_**Of the Founding of Marannan-astair**_

The master nodded and grunted with a pronounced "Harrumph!" as his apprentice finished reading the chapter. "That will do, Tatya," Greagoir said, stroking the beard on his chin. "Much have we written regarding the Dark Elves, but I believe it is time we concentrated on the history of Men for a bit. The ways and means of finding such Mannish lore was perhaps less dangerous than the paths I tread to gather the tales of the Sidhe, but only by degree, and the process was much more laborious. There is now not one credible instance of historical fact arising from the First Age of Eastern Middle-earth -- let alone chronicles, whether bardic or scribal -- unless it came directly from the Dark Elves; but they have little interest in the lives of we mortals, nor the histories of our brief empires."

The blind scribe leaned forward towards where his apprentice sat, and remarked (with a good deal of sarcasm), "What we are left with, my good apprentice, is a hodgepodge of mangled myths and fallacious fables handed down from generation to generation, passed through filters of sentiment and ancestral pride, hallowed with time, and tainted with the attitudes and morals of each succeeding age, until we have naught but great piles of shite to sift through." Greagoir laughed loudly and exclaimed, "To find the history of Men, Tatya, you must get your hands dirty! Wave off the flies and dig through the manure and maggots, and perhaps you will find an undigested kernel of truth regarding Mankind's past!"

"Umm…where then shall we start, master?" Tatya asked, trying his best to sound intrigued (but was more so nauseated at the thought of having to dig through dung).

Without missing a beat, Greagoir triumphantly replied, "Why, The Second Age of Middle-earth, of course; for precious little can be found before the fall of Morgoth. We shall first look towards our own island realm, Marannan-astair, the land of accountants, bookkeepers and lawyers. Marannan-astair was built on seafaring commerce, and bureaucracy is bred in our bones. It is an irony of avarice that where flourishes trade and the counting of coin, there lies also written history. We shall also delve into the bloody triumphs and tragic fall of the Khanate of Five Kingdoms, which was of old called _Tsin-Quinqan_, once the greatest empire along the Eastern Ocean. Then, perhaps, before we run too far a field, we shall discuss the founding of Bajazet, its rapid rise after the destruction of the Balchoth horde in the east, and the long line of Hierophants who have built an empire out of desert sand, and in the process have managed to outwit both Sauron and Urzahil."

Tatya bit his lip and thought for a moment. "But certainly Marannan-astair is not that ancient," the apprentice said incredulously, his head spinning at the idea, "that would mean...our island is several thousand years old!"

Greagoir nodded with a satisfied smirk. "Yes, my dear apprentice, Marannan-astair has been continuously occupied since early in the Second Age or perhaps even further back in time. Its prime location in the straits of Enegaer has given it a strategic importance, both militarily and in trade, for countless centuries. I assume it was originally discovered in the shadowy past during one of the great migrations of Men in the First Age, and most likely by tribes heading north from the continent of Mu. It is all a matter of conjecture, really, but taking into account tidal currents and the primitive watercraft of those most ancient of times, I would say the first Men floated or rowed across to the island on rafts or in canoes. The channel waters between the island and Mu are much calmer and are sailable for a greater season than the stormy strait that lies between Marannan-astair and the southern shores of Hildorien. Nevertheless, those first journeys were dangerous, for it would be no mean feat to make the passage from Mu to Marannan without sails or a seaworthy vessel.

"Fisher-folk these first inhabitants were, most likely spending the summer months on the island away from the sweltering heat of Mu. Eventually, tribes settled permanently on our temperate shores, shifting their livelihoods from hunting and fishing to farming the rich soil. But aside from speculation, the first real hint of significant history lies in the Second Age, for it is a long-held tradition that the foundations of Marannan-astair were laid by great mariners from a far-distant shore who once came among the awe-struck and primitive fisher-folk and farmers of the island. The lore holds that these ancient mariners were near god-like in their aura, sailing in white ships that glided effortlessly across the sea without the use of oars or seemingly any other means of propulsion. Yet these tall men in their tall ships came not to conquer, for they were kindly and wise, exploring the world for the sake of bold adventure only.

"Across the Shadowy Seas they had come, and navigated the turbulent waters around the Cape of Mu, a savage crossing even the most adventurous sea-captains of modern times dare not sail. Having traversed north along the entire coast of Mu, they found at last what they sought: the straits by which they could find passage through to the inner seas of the world; and though they made no permanent habitation on the island, these noble ship-lords used our shores as a base from which to explore the seas to the east and to the north. Many times over the years they returned to the island, sharing their knowledge of ships and sailing, and of medicine, language and building, so that the ignorant folk of Marannan-astair grew in knowledge and skilled of craft. Yet there came a time when the ship-lords bade farewell and ventured homeward, promising another expedition within two year's time, and the grateful people of the island waited anxiously for the mariners' return voyage.

"The two years came and went, and the years after, but the ship-lords never returned; yet still the island-folk revered their memory, erecting two great statues at the foot of the harbor of what eventually became our city of Caladh. But the harbor has long since been dredged and enlarged, and the remnants of those granite giants, now weathered, old stone pillars, can still be seen far from shore -- lonely sentinels ever waiting the return of the white ships with golden sails to pass majestically up the strait towards the island."

"_Carnan Neamhaniar_!" Tatya cried with excitement. "So that's how those pillars came to be placed in the bay! I thought the cairns were merely raised by the harbor master so that beacon fires could be placed upon them."

"Well, no. No, not at all," Greagoir grumbled in exasperation, the interruption jarring him from his narrative, "but I suppose it is appropriate, in a poetic sense, that they are now used as beacons to guide ships into port. Towering they were in days of old, with high crowned helms upon their noble heads, but earthquakes and violent storms have long since toppled them. Now only the massive legs of the statues are all that remain..."

"Wait!" Tatya exclaimed and jumped to his feet. _Neamhaniar_ means 'Holy Men from the West'! Do you suppose that means..."

The master raised his hand, and the chagrined apprentice immediately fell silent. Greagoir glared with his blind eyes smoldering and growled, "My dear scribeling, while I appreciate your enthusiasm, might I ask that you attempt to control your outbursts of youthful ardor, before I, too, topple over from old age?"

Tatya obediently returned to his seat and glumly picked up his pen, while Greagoir rolled his eyes and sniffed impatiently. Having mended the frayed edges of his thought, the master continued, "Yes, Tatya, Neamhaniar does indeed mean 'Holy Men from the West', thank you for pointing that out so effusively; but I am far more interested in the similarities between the words 'Neamhaniar' and 'Numenor'. In Elvish Numenor means literally 'Westlands', which begs the question, were these 'Holy Men from the West' indeed Numenoreans?

I personally believe that is the case, primarily due to information garnered from my brief perusal of the Book of Akallabeth, or 'The Downfall of Numenor', so long ago in Minas Tirith. My recollection is a bit hazy, but I do remember clearly that the early Numenoreans were the greatest adventurers of the Second Age, and had navigated far beyond the stretches of Gondor and Harad that eventually became part of their empire. I am certain there was a chapter that dealt specifically with Numenoreans finding a passage to the Inner Sea. If that is the case, then Neamhaniar is merely a bastardization of Numenor, and Marannan-astair was indeed once visited by the High Men of the West.

"This might explain Marannan-astair's early and continued dominance in naval power throughout the centuries. Our ancestors were taught well by the Numenoreans, and they took full advantage of the lessons learned. Hence, we have had no rivals on the high seas, save perhaps for the Corsairs, for time out of mind, and it is why there has never been a successful invasion of the island. But truthfully, Marannan-astair has flourished for so long because we learned far back in our history not to seek to conquer the ever-feuding realms on the mainland. Ours is an invisible empire, Tatya, not some warring monolith with vast tracts of land that are hard to manage and eventually prove indefensible; but of a great shadowy web of commerce that none of our trading partners want to cut ties with because so many of them have learned that profit without war is better than greed with war. We have made ourselves so indispensable, in fact, that greater kingdoms have risen to our defense during times of conflict merely to insure their own interests, which, by the way, are also our interests. The irony is delicious!

"Whereas great realms in the West -- Gondor or Rochand for instance -- rely on the intricate interplay of honor and chivalry and fealty to maintain their power and prestige, Marannan-astair deals in cold currency and in all sorts of trade: importing, exporting, buying, selling -- if a price can be affixed to it, our island will ship it, trade it or hoard it. The defining difference between the Elvish-influenced kingdoms of the West, and the Mannish countries of the East, like Marannan-astair or Bajazet, is that we Easterners are more commerce-centered; while to a great western realm, like Gondor, commerce is a mere afterthought of empire and not the driving force that impels its existence.

"The further west one travels, the less emphasis is put on expanding trade. Dorwinion, a Mannish settlement on the southwestern slopes of the Orocarnis, adjacent to Rhun, is a great exporter of goods, particularly their fine vintages of wine, and their products can be found on both coasts of Middle-earth; further west, the kingdom of Dale thrives on commerce, but the bulk of its trade is with their nearest neighbors, the Dwarves of Erebor and the Elves of Eryn Lasgalen; in the furthest west, trade is so localized that products rarely leaves the country of origin, unless of course one considers the Dwarves, who have always been an industrious and mercantile race wherever they make their homes. But the other kingdoms of the West share somewhat in the elvish attitude of noble isolation, preferring to maintain their long-held customs and a hallowed belief in their own esteem; therefore, the lands outside of their spheres of influence are, to them, hardly worth dealing with."

Greagoir swatted a fly off his cheek, then stretched and yawned. Dabbing the sweat on his forehead with a fold of his robe, he remarked drowsily, "The late afternoon sun always beats the hardest on this side of the cottage." Reaching for his great, black staff he added, "Tatya, help me in and prepare supper, please. I wish to take a nap. This evening I think we shall go for a bit of a walk down by the pond where it will be cooler. There we shall discuss Tsin-Quinqan, the Khanate of Five Kingdoms. There is an interesting tale behind how I procured that history."


	12. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER XII: **_**A Tale of The Gold Coast**_

Evening was deepening by the time Greagoir and Tatya had passed through the high, parched grasses of the sun-bleached meadow on their way to the deep pond that lay at the tumbled, mossy stone feet of the highlands, jutting haphazardly in shaggily craggy tumuli above them. For a blind, and sometimes lame, old man, Greagoir walked at a brisk pace, planting his staff with authority every few paces or so to continue his forward momentum. Although the light was failing, he had no need to seek guidance, having trod this path many times over the years ("When the sighted man doth stumble at night," he had once said, "there goes the blind man without aid of light."). Meanwhile, Tatya stopped and started all along the way with the ungainly weight of lanterns, parchment, ink, quills, blankets, wineskin, and the master's chair in tow. Greagoir kept up a rambling discourse on gladiatorial spectacles in Bajazet, and their prime importance to that desert kingdom's local economy, the entire length of their journey, punctuated by "Tatya, quit dawdling!" every time his apprentice would falter.

A few ancient willows marked the spot where the dark waters lay, and they slowly swayed in mournful cadence to the stale breezes fanned by the high heat of summer, moving only with drowsy tremors as if the oppressive warmth disturbed their treeish dreams. But their long and supple tendril branches seemed to capture what coolness there was on the sluggish wind, and under their drooping protection the air about the pond was far less humid. Tatya tripped on a root and dropped his load with a clumsy crash, then spent several minutes on elbows and knees trying to locate his ink well in the muddy weeds. By the time the apprentice's search was complete, the master had already sat in his chair and began his lecture.

"I have been to the Gold Coast on Peer Kiryatin's business numerous times over the years," he stated matter-of-factly, "and never once could I draw you a map clearly delineating the borders of the khanates and petty-princedoms that line the shores of the Eastern Ocean, so often do these lands change hands. One would think that border swapping is as seasonal a business as the harvest in those outlandish realms, save that the farmers have more common sense in that regard than the potentates who attempt to rule them. It is truly ironic that the thousand mile stretch of eastern shoreline referred to as the Gold Coast is really only profitable to the mercenaries who constantly shift allegiances to the highest bidders in the unending series of internecine feuds between the ruling families of these fractious kingdoms; yet so intermarried have these royal families become over the years that it is impossible to pick a fight with anyone that is not a brother, nephew, in-law, great uncle or cousin twice-removed on his mother's side. I have actually commenced trade-talks with one side of a family, the ruling house of a khanate, only to have a cousin, a usurper come to power after a bloody coup, eventually sign the agreements while his relations were being sent to the block! Maddening for a diplomat, perhaps, but it certainly spices up tedious negotiations!

"Such chicanery and fratricide have been ever-present on the Gold Coast, but the Second Age was a period of consolidation. Throughout Middle-earth in that epochal time great empires or near-empires rose coevally, or close enough time-wise to strive against each other in a titanic struggle for the domination of the greater part of the known world: in the West, the maritime might of majestic Numenor versus the monolithic, malevolent power of Mordor; and in the East, the seething advance of the Balchoth horde against the realm of Tsin-Quinqan, the Khanate of Five Kingdoms. But like all the empires of the Second Age, Tsin-Quinqan is now a thing of shadows and dust, split once again into faded parcels of ebbing glory by the very factions from whence it was first formed, bereft of the unifying will upon which its glorious legend lies. Only a mere handful of chronicles and ballads escaped the final ruin of Tsin-Quinqan's once magnificent royal court -- its stately halls and lush gardens reduced to rubble in a series of bloody civil wars -- but the imposing tomb of its greatest emperor still stands, and is likened to a palace in its grandeur, and is hailed as one of the Seven Wonders of the World. And I was drawn to this emperor's tragic tale, intrigued by the simple but stunning epitaph chiseled into the onyx marble facade below his golden effigy:

_'Great among kings, still his fate lieth thus:_

_Even those enthroned on high fall to dust._

_What you are in life, friend, so once was he;_

_What he is in death, then so shall ye be._

_Proud, the victor in ev'ry war he fought,_

_But love's loss conquered what the sword could not.'_

"I was deeply moved by this self-effacing requiem. For such a great emperor to admit, even in death, that he was no more or less than any common man of his realm certainly was not in keeping with the high opinions the haughty but largely impotent potentates who followed in his stead had of themselves. Thus bemused with fascination, I sought out the story of Cui-Baili Khan, the last emperor of Tsin-Quinqan. Little did I know, but the getting of this tale of woe was in itself a story of sadness for me, and driven to madness I blindly crossed the Roaring Wastes and trod treacherous paths in my haste for self-destruction."

In the glinting lantern-light Tatya perceived a shadow of melancholy pass over Greagoir's face, and the robust old man seemed to shrink as his thoughts were drawn inward to some haunting memory that seemed to suck the vitality from his very marrow. Yet with the exhale of a wistful sigh, his aged master returned, a bit weakened and somewhat somber in his visage, perhaps, but hale and hearty as ever. Greagoir grasped his black staff as if it were a ward against the darkness, and pulled his cloak closer to him, even though the night was still hot and humid.

"I was sent on an embassy by Attar Kiryatin to the Khanate of Geas-geata," Greagoir blurted suddenly and with some effort, "there to procure for him a birthright to bury his bastardly background. It was my first journey on behalf of that ungrateful poseur of a pirate," the master hissed at the thought of his reluctant patron, "and I took my mission with all the seriousness a young man at the advent of a bright career could muster: which is to say I had every intention of conducting myself in the manner of a seasoned diplomat; yet saddled with the wandering mind and restless heart of a precocious youth, I was bound to go somewhat astray.

"The Khanate of Geas-Geata was a corrupt and decadent remnant of glorious Tsin-Quinqan, a meager shadow of that once great empire, accounting for perhaps a tenth of that former realm's land mass; yet it was ruled by exactly the type of disreputably greedy bureaucrats that would be amenable to my sordid plan for raising my master to respectability. Seeking proper introductions and wrangling my way through that pit of seething vipers took some doing, as even the lowest echelon administrators had their hands out, their eyes closed and their ears to the ground. But I must say, once rumor got about that a young diplomat was spending freely for information, doorways that were at first closed to me swung wide with fawning prefects and smarmy seneschals bidding me solicitous and wholly insincere welcome. It was all I could do to keep from laughing right in their bloated faces as their pudgy little fingers nervously counted the coins I had dropped in their ample laps.

"Most difficult of all was reaching the eunuchs of the inner circle, the Castrati, who surrounded their figurehead princeling and basically wielded power in his stead, leaving the oblivious Khan to putter about in his gardens -- kept fresh and unhampered with the day-to-day rule of his realm -- ever ready to be trotted out for ceremonial display on state occasions. These eunuchs proved to be tough nuts to crack -- if you'll pardon the pun. As their positions were neither hereditary nor a matter of entitlement, the Castrati jealously guarded their shadowy roles behind the throne and looked at all outsiders with utter suspicion. Needless to say, I was left to cool my heels for several weeks while I sought an audience with the head eunuch, a sly and grossly obese creature named Mharu-muc.

"In the interim, and out of boredom, I took to searching out the ancient ruins that littered the countryside of Geas-Geata, fallen monuments to an illustrious past. It was on one of these expeditions that I came upon the Sepulchre of Cui-Baili, whose daunting minarets loomed out of a forsaken valley, black-bulbed spires wholly alien to the natural surroundings of tumbled boulders, flagstone, wildflowers, grass and pine. The vale itself was a great lake and in the center, accessible only by a granite and basalt causeway, stood the magnificent tomb of the fallen emperor. To say this mausoleum was breathtaking would be an understatement. I only had such a sense of awe when I first beheld the tower of Ecthelion and then the white city of Minas Tirith itself, shimmering against the mountains of Ered Nimrais. On the drowned plain below me, encircled by crystal blue water and standing amidst groves of tropical hibiscus, jasmine, magnolia and palm, the stunning edifice shone starkly in stone of white and black, mirrored in chiaroscuro upon the glassy pool at its impervious feet.

"As I drank in the view I discerned a solitary figure, small against the imposing backdrop, passing secretively in through the massive gilt doors of the Sepulchre. Strange as it was that only a single person might be partaking with me in the grandeur of this palatial tomb; I thought it stranger still that it was indeed so desolate there, and I wondered why penitents had not made the Sepulchre a place of pilgrimage, flocking in their milling thousands to marvel at this monument to mournful majesty. Ever inquisitive, I was drawn down from my vantage point, across the causeway and to the great doors, there to seek out the lone soul who had unwittingly joined me in my desultory reverie. The immense vaulted inner space of the Sepulchre stretched above me, a great ribbed chest consuming sound and light, commanding my silence. And there...and there..."

Greagoir paused again as if to draw from a deep well of will, a diminishing reserve that grew harder and harder to reach. His lips quavered as speech escaped him, leaving Tatya to wonder at his master's sudden mute distress. But even blind, Greagoir felt his apprentice's intense scrutiny, and returned a wan smile. "In my long life, Tatya," the master finally drawled, "I have been bludgeoned, I have been punched and I have been stabbed, but the pain of being smitten supersedes all other physical forms of torment. Love is a bewildering mix of infuriating pain and sultry bliss from its first, awkward embrace to its woeful parting kiss. Love is a weight one shoulders gladly, but its absence is an excruciating burden that must be endured. Yet separated by a countless span of miles and a great gulf of time, love remains -- never to be shirked or forgotten -- a living entity haunting the deep recesses of your heart long after it has departed."

That is it! Tatya thought to himself, the master has finally lost his mind -- he's begun to babble. Concerned, the apprentice attempted to interrupt, but Greagoir continued on with his tale as if he had just surmounted some difficult hurdle:

She was standing there at the emperor's tomb, merely staring at the great block of black marble, utterly lost to the rest of the world. By her silk robes, I could tell she came from a wealthy family, which I thought odd, as she was there unattended. I stood behind her near the entrance, barely moving from the apse to the nave of the Sepulchre. I dared not speak, as I thought it would be rude to disturb her quiet contemplation. After several moments of silent communion, she at last acknowledged my presence.

Turning her head, so that her long, dark hair glided from her shoulder across the silk on her back, revealing only the side of her face, she said, 'Do you, too, come here to mourn the passing of all that is just and true in this fallen realm?'

I knew not what to say. I stepped forward tentatively, allowing time enough to compose myself (so as not to sound like some blithering idiot). When I finally stood beside her, I looked up at the resting place of Cui-Baili and read the words inscribed on his monument. 'Truth does not entirely abandon any land where lives those who seek it, my lady,' I answered quietly, still pondering the emperor's epitaph. I added, 'few though those seekers may be.'

'There may be those few in Geas-Geata who recognize Truth,' she replied forlornly, 'but then avoid it at all costs. None seek it in this realm."

She was so sad, so awash in melancholy, that my heart was moved to pity. 'If there are but two souls left who bear witness to the Truth, then all is not lost,' I said sympathetically as I turned to meet her gaze. I was instantly struck by her eyes: almond-shaped they were, of a sparkling green but flecked with lighter hazel. Her beauty was familiar, as if from a dream. I let out an audible gasp, then dropped my glance in embarrassment.

She smiled a little, and I melted further. ''Tis obvious you are an optimist," she stated in a less somber tone, "for you the bottle is always half-full."

'Nay, my lady,' I said with a grin, 'rarely have I left a bottle that wasn't emptied!'

She laughed then, high and clear, uplifting and tender. 'Ah, my friend!' she exclaimed, 'you have heard my laughter, which is a thing rarer still than Truth these days!'

'Then I would have it as common as sand on the shore,' I replied, 'if such a thing so precious could be made so.'

She looked at me strangely and said, 'Hmmm...a diplomat with a poet's soul. I know you from court, do I not?'

My face grew ashen as the sudden shock of recognition overwhelmed me. Of course, the maid was familiar! I had never met her before, and had only seen her from afar. On those occasions, she was dressed more regally, and was surrounded by a great retinue of servants, soldiers and sycophants, all dutifully following her father, the Khan.

I bowed humbly and said, 'A thousand pardons for my forwardness, your Highness. Had I but known...'

'Had you but known,' she interrupted, 'then we would not being having this conversation. I would have not had a brief moment of mirth, and you would be attempting to curry favor for your employer with well-worn words of tedious flattery. For you are working for that corsair...that murderous Kiryatin...are you not?'

'Well...yes...I am in his hire,' I replied with chagrin. 'But I was not aware my mission was one that would gain the ear of the Princess.'

'And how could I not hear of your trollishly subtle machinations?' she snapped and boldly placed her fists on her hips. 'I am surrounded by thieves who would sell themselves finger by finger, joint by joint, if the price were right, and here you come, the suave Southron, buying off my traitorous administrators with a limitless supply of gold most likely plundered from my father's coffers in the first place!'

I did not like where this conversation was going. The Princess' eyes grew dark, actually changing from a lively green to near gray, like a stormy sea. 'Again, I beg...most deeply...your pardon, Highness,' I sputtered in supplication and bowed with eyes averted. 'I have indeed been sent on an errand where bribery is, unfortunately, a stock item in the arsenal of diplomacy. If I have offended thee, then I shall remove myself from your sight.'

'Ha!' she exclaimed, then laughed, 'An honest scoundrel! I am not sure of the length of a cutpurse's career if he goes about telling his victims he is picking their pockets, but I must admit the idea is novel!' She glared at me hard for a moment then her features softened, and she appeared vulnerable. She turned again to gaze at the gold and marble sarcophagus, and said wistfully, 'I wish that I could have been the daughter of a true Khan, and not the scion of a mere shell of a man who long ago surrendered his power and dignity, mocked and paraded about for the sport of his own crows at court.'

She turned again to me and asked, 'Southron....or Greagoir of Caladh, is it not? Yes? Well then, Greagoir, know you the tale of Cui-Baili? Know you of the fall of the greatest emperor of the East, and why Geas-Geata is now in its present sorry state?'

When I admitted I hadn't, but longed to hear such a tale, she nodded with satisfaction and said, 'I had heard you were a wordsmith in addition to your more unsavory role as huckster for a pirate.' Obviously amused at my silent discomfort, she smiled and added, 'Please, Greagoir, for the present I ask that you ignore my station, a circumstance brought about wholly by birth and not through any entitlement, I can assure you. Let us for a few, short moments be two lore-seekers intent on finding the Truth, and neither a noble prize to be sold to the highest bidder, nor a conniving diplomat employed by a cut-throat.'

I had heard at court that the Princess was being shopped around by the Castrati to the other khanates on the Gold Coast, a bride to seal alliances and reduce the risk of war. I knew then the reason for her melancholy: she was merely a bird in a guilded cage, lacking the freedom to sing her own song; whereas I had been an indentured servant who eventually worked his way out of his chains, she would forever be a slave to the whims of courts and khans, a bauble to be toyed with. Her personification was worth more than her person, which was incidental. 'Your highness...' I said, whelmed with pity, and attempted to bow, but she placed her hand lightly on my shoulder and I froze, as if entranced.

'I have a name, and it is Leannan,' she said imploringly, 'I shall have the rest of my life to bear my cursed title, allow me this time to merely be Leannan."

Gazing into the depths of her fathomless eyes, I dumbly nodded. Would that it were she was only a woman and not a princess! I thought. For even then, Leannan held me in thrall. I had met her but once and I knew. Leaving the grandly austere tomb, we strolled about the park that surrounded the Sepulchre, and spoke of many things. Leannan was well-read, indeed wise beyond her years, and far more perceptive than her court officials. Had circumstances been different she might have been a poet of some note, or a scholar hermited away -- unmindful of her beauty or former position -- and had been happier with her lot. And so I encouraged the voice of the poet from within and ignored the troubled princess from without, and we sat beneath the scented shade of a blooming magnolia as she recounted the history of Tsin-Quinqan.


	13. Chapter 13

**CHAPTER XIII: **_**The Khanate of Five Kingdoms**_

The realm of Tsin-Quinqan, as its name belied, was once five different kingdoms, of which Tsin was the smallest. Tsin the helpless! Tsin the precarious! Wedged as it was between the fickle Eastern Sea and bigger, bully neighbors, its existence was ever threatened with tide and turmoil. But through such adversity the realm of Tsin managed to eke out an embattled existence, and its people grew hardy and unmindful of hardships -- proud of the fact that they were survivors -- unbent and unbowed. From this tough stock rose a remarkable line of khans who would shake the pillars of the Eastern World with their glorious deeds, and like shooting stars they would cast wonderment across the firmament; but all too soon that mercurial light would fail, leaving only a legacy of darkness and bright but fading memories.

The first of this line was Cui-Chullain, named the Fierce, the marshal of Tsin's small but disciplined army. When it became clear that his predecessor, Baothan -- a weak-willed Khan prone to acquiescing to his neighbors -- was ready to surrender sovereignty of Tsin (while retaining his titular post) rather than risk a war he was ill equipped to prosecute, Cui-Chullain forcefully grabbed the reins of power and banished the Khan and his family from the realm. This coup, although just in saving Tsin from falling prey to its rivals, had far-reaching consequences for Cui-Chullain and his descendants. As Khan, the crown sat uneasily on Cui-Chullain's head, and his enemies called him 'Usurper' and 'Bloodthirsty', and Tsin was in a continuous state of war throughout his reign.

Cui-Chullain proved to be a tough and tireless general, and his soldiers were fervent in their adoration for the man, who slept and ate with them in the mud and rain, and who awarded positions in the army and at court based on bravery and merit, rather than privilege and parentage. But forced to fight a war on two fronts, Cui-Chullain was driven in desperation to the very shores of the ocean -- or at least so his enemies thought. But the wily Chullain knew well the capricious currents and tidal flow of his native land, and he lured the vast armies of Noor and Geata into a trap. With the ousted Khan Baothan in the van of Tsin's enemies -- an iconic puppet paraded about to lend credence to this 'righteous crusade' -- the invaders marched methodically down the sandy shores, unhindered and fully expecting an easy victory. Cui-Chullain and his veteran group of campaigners awaited them on the high ground just above a seemingly-serene bay the local fishermen called the 'Cataract'.

The tides of the Cataract ran counter to the flow of the waters along most of the coast in spring, with the ebbing of neap tide reaching its lowest point just before noon. All that morning there was a desperate battle along the foothills above the shore, as the vastly superior numbers of the Nooris and the Geats surrounded the beleaguered forces of Cui-Chullain, ranging in great numbers far out on the sandy shelf of the bay, left barren by low tide. As the sun ranged past high noon in the cloudless sky, there came a great roar as the Cataract suddenly filled with turbulent waters. With Cui-Chullain's men valiantly holding the high ground, the armies of their enemies, weighed down by cumbersome mail and heavy leather boots, were swept seaward by the violent undertow. Those few survivors left clinging in terror and bewilderment to their rocky footholds were easy marks for the bowmen above. Within an hour of the cataclysm, the battle was over, the armies of Noor and Geata were decimated, and the deposed Baothan Khan was captured by Cui-Chullain, his former marshal. As a final insult, Cui-Chullain had Baothan unceremoniously locked in a large falconer's cage, where he spent the rest of his wretched days perched from the ceiling of the palace he once called home.

But Cui-Chullain was not able to follow up on his stunning victory. Even as he assembled his forces for an invasion of the now defenseless khanates of Geata and Noor, he was stricken with a debilitating illness that left him bed-ridden for weeks. Many whispered that he had been poisoned by his enemies, and to the learned lore-masters of the land this seemed so, as none could treat him, or even offer him some relief from his agony. When it became clear that the Khan would not long survive this wasting sickness, his son, Timur-lenk, was recalled home from abroad.

Timur-lenk, or Tamer the Lame in Common Speech, so-called for the halting limp he sustained from a failed assassination attempt when he was but a child, had been sent forth for his safety's sake far from Tsin by his concerned father, and was raised by kindly kings and chieftains in foreign lands. Ever threatened by impending death, Timur spent much of his formative years in travel, always one step ahead of a hidden blade or well-aimed arrow. But such was the young Prince's state of mind that he never knew fear -- a trait characteristic of his House -- and welcomed the chance of visiting new lands, learning the languages and discovering how things worked. When he reached the Khan's deathbed, he was full ready to ascend to the throne of his dying father. And Cui-Timur proved more than capable of filling his father's formidable shoes, lame though he might be, earning for himself the titles of 'Conqueror' and 'Emperor' in his long and storied career.

It was Cui-Timur who developed Tsin's imposing cavalry, modeled on the fierce mounted tribesmen he had once seen sweeping across the high-plains of Hildorien in his years of travel; and ever after Cui-Timur was seen astride a horse, leading his forces with his crippled leg strapped to a stirrup. The added mobility of horse warfare allowed his forces to fight on several fronts, and to fall upon their unsuspecting enemies seemingly at a moment's notice. In addition, the young Khan set about building a fleet, having learned the rudiments of shipbuilding away in the south; for Cui-Timur had seen the tides of a nation's fortune turn on the success of its navy, both in war and peace. Armed thus with advances in military strategy and armed might, Cui-Timur set about avenging the death of his father, and with a restless heart and searching mind, spent the next twenty years conquering one after another of Tsin's neighboring states, and adjudging the fate of his fallen enemies from the saddle, the only true throne of his early rule.

First of the khanates to fall was Noor, one of the co-conspirators in the invasion of Tsin. Noor was the home-in-exile of Baothan Khan's son, Baolach. But Baolach was neither as weak-willed nor timid as his father was. He deftly eluded Cui-Timur's troops, who had been sent to search for him, and slipped off southward from the sack of Noor's capital. In time Baolach made his way to the camps of the Balchoth in distant Hildorien, and offered his services to the great Chieftain Khalid Barbaratha, father of Khamul the Butcher. There, the vengeful Baolach whispered cunningly to Khalid, and afterwards to his cruel and ambitious son, of the tremendous stores of riches to be gotten on the Gold Coast, setting in motion events that led to the greatest conflagration the East has ever known.

But for the present, Cui-Timur continued his dogged advance along the coast. Soon after the fall of Noor, the mountainous northern Khanate of Xu capitulated without so much as a blade being drawn. The realm of Talamh and its vaunted army proved to be made of sterner stuff than the Khanates of Xu and Noor. With the backing of the cynical Khan of Geata, who shrewdly managed to use other kingdoms' armies to fight his battles, the Talmhai boldly withstood the invading forces of Tsin. A protracted siege ensued, but with the newly-built sea power of Tsin, a naval blockade effectively strangled Talamh. Starving and eventually abandoned by its ally, Geata, the Talmhai surrendered to Cui-Timur. This left only Tsin's arch-nemesis, Geata, to stand against Cui-Timur's growing empire.

The desperate Khan of Geata, having exhausted the resources of his allies, sought other means to maintain his power. Knowing that his army could not withstand the brilliant and relentless Cui-Timur, the Khan of Geata found a partner with a seemingly endless supply of manpower at its disposal. For Khalid Barbaratha, Chieftain of the Balchoth, had sent an embassy with messages of goodwill and succor to the embattled Khan, and the leader of the delegation was none other than Baolach, son of the former Khan of Tsin. The conniving Baolach knew well the mind of his master, and he had his own vengeful agenda. With subtle words he gained the confidence of the aging and fretful Khan, and dispatched requisitions to Khalid for a mercenary force to bolster the army of Geata.

Within months whole clans of the Balchoth and their subordinate tribes came streaming across the frontiers from Hildorien. Like a virulent swarm of locust descending on the fertile fields of Geata, the Balchoth set up their great camps, evicting rightful landowners and causing much consternation amongst the citizens of Geata. The Balchoth treated their hosts with disdain, and took what they would from farmers, freemen and nobles alike. Great misery was there among the people, particularly those displaced in the south, but the indignant pleas of the Geats to their Khan proved fruitless; for he who had so shrewdly used other kingdom's resources to further his own ends now found himself outplayed in the very game at which he so long excelled. Reluctant to lose the very allies he hoped would quell the invasion of Cui-Timur, but galled nonetheless at having to pay for this mercenary horde that deluged his borders, the Khan walked the tightrope of diplomacy, teetering ever closer to the brink of oblivion. To this day, the ravages of mercenary armies and free companies still blight the Gold Coast; a legacy of ancient misrule and corruption.

But Cui-Timur proved shrewder than either of his enemies. Having received news of the alliance of Geata and the Balchoth, the Khan of Tsin and his vast army of horsemen boarded ships -- the greatest armada of its day -- and sailed southward down the coast past Geata, harboring on the barren shores of Hildorien. Rising thus from the sea unseen and unexpected, Cui-Timur and his cavalry drove northward and not southward as expected, and fell upon the Balchoth camps at unawares, swiftly routing each in turn. The common folk of Geata, fearing more the depredations of their guests, the Balchoth, than the swords of the invaders, hailed Cui-Timur as a liberator. The Geatish army put up only a cursory defense of their land, offering token resistance in order to secure favorable surrender terms from the generous Timur. Having been forsaken by both his people and his army, the Khan of Geata was decapitated by his own servants, and his crowned head was sent as a present to the conqueror. Upon beholding the gory gift, Cui-Timur took the crown from the dead Khan's head and placed it on his own, and proclaimed himself emperor of Tsin-Quinqan, the Khanate of Five Kingdoms, with these words:

'_A blade in the dark did cut to the bone, _

_But saved was I by chance from sudden death --_

_A lame child sent forth by a father's love,_

_Returned in time to hear his final breath._

_Revenge I craved, and sated on a blade_

_With blood from those who would seek to disown_

_My house. And now I place upon my head_

_The fruits of victory -- this fallen crown._

_Let it thus be told that I have cometh!_

_The very hand that smote with cruel sword_

_Shall seek to bind the bloody wounds of war._

_Glad shall all the lands be to call me Lord!'_

And so Cui-Timur proved not only foresighted in the manner of war, but in peace as well, granting favorable terms to the defeated lands and offering near-autonomous privileges to the subject princes who governed in his stead. Still, there were rebellions throughout the newly-founded empire, and Cui-Timur spent much of his later rule quelling these insurrections, for even the most enlightened conqueror is seen by the defeated elite as an encroacher on their individual liberties; or, more likely, interfering with their ability to subjugate the common folk themselves. But Cui-Timur wisely sought out the instigators of sedition rather than punishing their followers, and by the end of his reign the vast majority of his empire submitted to his rule, perceiving at last the bright prospect of peace that had for so long proved elusive.

Cui-Timur's reign spanned more than thirty years, yet he was not old when he met his untimely death. Still vigorous and bellicose as he approached his fiftieth birthday, the emperor sought to expand his empire, but on a military expedition to the far north, he and a party of his nobles rashly decided to hunt hill trolls on the high moors. The Emperor's party rousted a slumbering troll from its cave, but did not reckon on the beast's sudden and violent attack. The bristling behemoth made straight for Cui-Timur, and the great Khan defended himself valorously, but the powerful troll broke the neck of Timur's horse, sending the emperor sprawling. Wounded and lame, Cui-Timur was unable to stave off the infuriated troll and was crushed before his aides could kill the monster. Thus ended the reign of the first emperor of Tsin-Quinqan.

Cui-Timur's firstborn son, Ealain, was duly crowned as Khan of Tsin and Emperor of the Five Kingdoms. Though he shared none of his illustrious father's battle lust, Cui-Ealain was no less formidable in protecting his lands. He proved to be a capable administrator, a shrewd diplomat, and was well-loved by his people. This was due in large part to the foresightedness of Cui-Timur. Even though he had been embroiled in the all-consuming labors of empire-building, Cui-Timur did not forsake the education of his son, remembering well that what he learned in his youth proved to be the building-blocks for his later success. And so, by the time Ealain had reached manhood and eventually ascended to the throne, he was well-traveled and immersed in the regimes of engineering, mathematics and statecraft.

His reign was notable for great public works, of a marvelous system of roads and aqueducts, and the building of commercial centers to better serve the needs of his empire. In addition, Cui-Ealain was renowned as a patron of the arts and of learning. Under his rule scholars and sculptors and craftsmen of exceeding skill flocked to Tsin-Quinqan, and the realm flowered in beauty and knowledge, so much so that it was said the empire was 'roofed in gold, paved in marble and ruled by the wise.' Cui-Ealain erected the splendid, many-domed imperial palace with its fabled hanging gardens, and the Libraries of Xu and Geata, great halls of learning and lore.

But though Cui-Ealain's empire proved an incomparable pearl in the vast and primitive East, the glories of his reign were overshadowed by ominous storm clouds that spread a menacing darkness across all the lands. For it is said that in the tenth year of Cui-Ealain's reign emissaries from the Dark Lord Sauron sought audience with the emperor, and they offered him a ring, a gold band unadorned with jewels nor inscribed with runes, but supposedly steeped with much power and a potent weapon to rule the hearts of men. This they offered as a token of friendship and esteem from their mighty lord, if Cui-Ealain would but ally with Sauron the Great.

'And why should I wish to rule the hearts of men?' Cui-Ealain asked of Sauron's envoy. 'I may rule their lands, I may even order them about bodily, but a king cannot win the hearts of his people through domination.'

'It matters not how you wish to rule your people,' one emissary growled insolently, 'we offer you a great gift from the hand of Lord Sauron himself. Such a prize should not be gainsaid. It is perilous to refuse the friendship of Sauron.'

Cui-Ealain gazed long and hard at the ambassador of Mordor, and at the ring he held before him. The grim silence lasted for many uncomfortable moments without any sign of surcease, when the irritated emissary snapped, 'Yea or nay, my lord, will you accept this mighty token from Sauron the Great? What answer have thee for Mordor?'

But the wise emperor, although troubled in mind, was not cowed and replied thusly: 'In one hand you present a token of goodwill, a gift that appears plain to the eye but seethes with a hidden malice. Such is the manner of your feigned offer of friendship as well. For in the other hand, hidden beneath your black robes, you hold veiled threats as real as a dagger. Friends are not made at knifepoint, nor are alliances sealed in such a way, save by desperate fools. Be gone, foul servant of darkness, your words are laced with the poison of your master! Tell Lord Sauron he must forcibly take that which he thinks he can deceitfully steal!'

And the emissaries of Mordor were driven forth from the realm of Tsin-Quinqan in disgrace, and from thenceforward the malevolent eye of Sauron was set against Cui-Ealain and his House; but the evil seeds of the Dark Lord found fertile ground elsewhere in the East. Far to the south, the envoy of Mordor was well-received in the camps of the Balchoth, and shown much honor before the seat of Khalid Barbaratha. Yet such was the will of Sauron that the chosen instrument of his evil was not Khalid, but his ambitious son, Khamul. The emissaries of the Dark Lord made their overtures in secret to Khamul, and they offered unto him the Ring of Power; and they played upon his vanity and his lust for domination.

'Your father, Khalid, has grown weak in his old age,' an emissary hissed, 'he no longer leads your warriors into glorious battle, preferring to waste his waning years in these dusty cow pastures. In a few years your legacy shall be naught but a petty-kingdom of mud, straw and dung.'

'Greater lords have treated your folk like sheep fattened for the slaughter,' added another. 'With impunity the Khan of Tsin-Qinqan exterminated the Balchoth in Geata without so much as a stern word from Khalid. The enemies of the Balchoth openly mock the once-proud House of Barbaratha!'

'Your father fritters away the might of your tribe, an old miser counting his niggardly wealth in patch-work tents and a few naggish horses,' the first continued with unrelenting pressure. 'Is there none in the House of Barbaratha with the will to conquer? Shall Sauron the Great go elsewhere to seek a leader formidable enough to be called his friend and ally?'

A fierce light smoldered in the eyes of Khamul as a great hunger was awakened in his dark heart. 'The Lord Sauron need not look any further for a great leader of men, for there is none who can match me,' the haughty Khamul proclaimed as he greedily snatched the ring from the emissary's outstretched hand. Placing it on his finger and admiring its enticing brilliance, Khamul smiled in satisfaction and stated, 'Yes, I know what I must do.'

The following evening, a splendid feast was given in honor of the delegation from Mordor. A huge open pavilion of silk and cloth of gold was erected in the center of the Balchoth camp to make room for the throng of clan-leaders and lesser chieftains of vassal tribes who were in attendance. These sat in order of precedence at many a long trestle arrayed in a crescent around the table of honor, at the center of which sat the Chieftain Khalid, with his son, Khamul, at his right hand, and the emissaries of Sauron to his left. Khalid raised a goblet of wine in toast to his new allies, but no sooner had he gulped down its contents, he began to sputter and hack.

'What is the matter, old man, cannot take your wine?' Khamul mocked.

Khalid struggled up from the table in dismay, but was unable to speak. Gasping, he placed his hands on his son's shoulders, silently imploring aid; yet when he gazed in Khamul's eyes he beheld not respect or concern, but treachery. In anger, Khalid reached for his dagger, but Khamul callously pushed his father over the table, sending plates and pitchers crashing as the chieftain tumbled face-first into the dirt.

Khalid's bodyguard and those loyal to their chieftain roared and rushed with blades drawn to protect him, but Khamul had prepared for such eventualities. Bows twanged from the darkness and cut down those who opposed Khamul, and armed men surrounded the pavilion, ready to quell any further opposition with their spears. The ruthless Khamul calmly strode forward from the wreckage of the table and stood over his choking father, placing a heavy boot on the struggling chieftain's neck.

'I am the Balchothard,' he boldly announced, using his father's title. 'Is there any here who would question my claim?'

A silence fell on those in attendance, until the cynical Baolach, always knowing which way the wind blew, bowed before Khamul and loudly proclaimed, 'Hail Khamul! Hail the Balchothard!'

Whether they perceived the change as favorable to their positions, or were merely too shocked to do otherwise, the remaining guests at the feast all bowed and took up the chorus as well, raising their swords in honor of their new chieftain. Khamul, too, raised his sword, then grasped it two-handed on the pommel and jabbed the blade downwards with all his might into his father's back.

With the quivering sword jutting like a warning from the skewered body of Khalid, Khamul bellowed, 'No longer shall we beat the bounds of wealthier kingdoms like wretched curs, content with scraps fallen from the tables of the mighty. We shall have war! We shall bathe the plains of Hildorien red with the blood of our enemies! No one shall stand against the Balchoth! We shall build an empire on the bones of those who oppose us! To war!"

'To war!' Khamul's subjects howled and shrieked like mindless were-beasts slathering for meat; for it is said in that hour that the Ring of Sauron elevated Khamul's power of command to staggering heights and drove his minions to frenzy. Soon all the tribes under the sway of the Balchoth rose like a vast swarm of angry hornets to answer the call of Khamul, and the Great Horde cut a swathe of bloody destruction across the plains.


	14. Chapter 14

**CHAPTER XIV: **_**A Most Dangerous Affair**_

Greagoir sighed in exasperation and then took a deep, tiresome breath. "But Leannan's tale was cut short," the blind bard grumbled, as if that interruption from his youth coincided with the weariness of his old age. "Palace guards, who had been sent to look for the wayward princess, came tromping oafishly through the glade to the spot under the magnolias where Leannan and I sat. Harsh words did the guards have for me, and they wished to lay hands on me as a rogue and a kidnapper, but the princess boldly stood between my assailants and I.

'Fools!' Leannan boomed regally. 'Can you see that I am certainly not held here against my will? This is Greagoir of Caladh, a diplomat of Marannan-astair. I had lost my way on a long walk, and this Southron envoy has guarded my person until such time as you bumbling fools at last found me! I should have you all placed in irons for your incompetence!'

The chagrined guards bowed and scraped, offering a thousand blithering apologies for their ineptness. Satisfied that she had sufficiently cowed and bewildered them, Leannan acquiesced. 'That will be enough," she nodded in affirmation, "you may lead me back to the palace…if the task is not too daunting.'

The guards quickly formed a phalanx around the princess and began to march off, but Leannan lingered for a moment, causing the guards to stumble against each other after realizing their ward had not followed in step with them. Leannan rolled her eyes, and then smiled at me. 'Keep marching," she barked in feigned exasperation to her footmen, "I shall meet you on the causeway.'

The guards, uncertain of their duty in this case, but unwilling to receive another tongue-lashing, hesitated for a moment, then left with uncertain strides towards the bridge. When they were at last out of sight, Leannan turned to me and clasped my hand gently. I was taken aback, and out of naïve humility would have loosed my hand from hers, but her grip became firmer, and with her other hand she lightly caressed my cheek.

'There is no need for formality between us, my dear Greagoir. To you, I am still Leannan, a fellow seeker of Truth,' she said softly, 'not the lofty and unapproachable Princess of Geas-Geata.' Then, with a hint of sadness, she added, 'I wish to thank you for saving me.'

'Your Highness…Leannan…,' I said uneasily, striving mightily to speak whilst my head swam between the tempestuous shoals of honor and ardor, 'I have done nothing to deserve such thanks. You offered unto me a priceless gift: a tale worthy of remembrance. I merely listened.'

Leannan smiled again and held me in her gaze. 'Ah, but you have done much more than merely listen, Greagoir,' she answered, 'and you are indeed my savior. For in this brief hour of respite from ceremony and solicitation, you have inspired the poetess and forgotten the princess; you have sought for knowledge without prying for information; you have given of yourself freely without motives of profit. For this and more I am humbly in your debt.'

"Then she kissed me," Greagoir mumbled in a tone halfway between embarrassment and wonder. And then, lost in distant memories, he barely whispered, "a kiss such a one as the immortal Luthien first bestowed on lowly Beren in the first flowering of love in the Elder Days…"

There was a long silence, and Tatya waited patiently for his master to continue. But when it became apparent that no further reply was forthcoming, Tatya laid aside his quill and set down his parchment. The dutiful apprentice placed a blanket about the sleeping scribe, and he, himself, stretched out for a nap alongside the tranquil pond. Tatya was both surprised and pleased at his master's tale, having never considered Greagoir the sort to show any affection beyond his obvious love of books and lore. But ever did the master prove himself to be a contradiction and a mystery, Tatya thought as the music of a warm summer's night -- the persistent chirping of crickets and the drone of cicadas -- lulled him quickly to sleep.

The master slept longer than usual, the first hints of a dawning day tingeing the highland moors red and orange before he stirred. And he was in a foul mood. Having slept all that humid summer night in his chair, he awoke stiff as a board and surly as a bear. "Tatya!" he boomed. "You lazy, good-for-nothing son of a barnacle, get me out of this damnable chair! My legs are about as damned useless as the shite you have for brains! Wake up, you loutish urchin, before I use the business end of my staff to knock some sense into that bilious head of yours!"

Tatya immediately bolted upright; unfortunately, his feet had been overhanging the pond. By the time he could think clearly enough, he found himself waist-deep in murky water with muck oozing into his boots. Sodden and miserable, the dazed apprentice blearily made an attempt to pull himself out of the pond, but one of his boots remained entrenched in the black, sucking mud. Rolling his eyes and clenching his teeth in exasperation, he thumbed his nose at the blind bard, and hopped back into the water to retrieve his reluctant footwear.

Greagoir, having expended most of his virulent vexation in the preceding tirade, followed the sound of his apprentice splashing about with a quizzical look and said, "Tatya, why are you bathing? It's not Sunday yet, is it?"

Tatya merely sighed in resignation and poured the slimy silt and brackish water from his boot. "No master," he replied, "just getting a jump on the week is all."

"Hmmm…," Greagoir drawled, "very foresighted of you. Now if you wouldn't mind foregoing the niceties of your toilette, please get me out of this damned chair; there is much we have to do today, and we have wasted time enough on slothful ways."

The walk back to the cottage was long and difficult. The master cursed after every painful, laborious step, leaning heavily on the long-suffering Tatya, who was still soaked and already overburdened with the supplies he had carried from the night previous. By the time they reached their stoop, both were exhausted. After guiding his master back into the chair he had lugged all the way from the pond, Tatya plopped heavily upon a step with a pronounced grunt. Greagoir winced as he settled his backside more comfortably into his chair and yawned mightily. After some thought, Greagoir -- obviously deciding that the pair had luxuriated overlong in indolence -- recommenced his tale, leaving the dead-tired Tatya to scramble for pen and parchment, and thus he wrote:

Intoxicated by love, I strove to see the princess as often as discretion allowed, stealing intimate moments in the dark, or talking unassumingly of lore at courtly feasts. But my clandestine liaison with Leannan complicated my mission at the palace of Geas-Geata. I received stern letters from Attar-Kiryatin, who in his piratical impatience upbraided me for tarrying on antiquities whilst squandering his money without tangible results; meanwhile, rumor of my trysts with Leannan had reached the ears of Mharu-muc, the vulpine and corpulent chief of the Castrati. Disturbed that such reports might damage Princess Leannan's value as a virginal commodity on the marriage-market, the rotund steward of the Khan granted me immediate audience after so many weeks of seeming indifference.

I met with the saturnine eunuch in an antechamber of the _saray, _the inner sanctum of the palace, where only the khan, his wives and concubines, and the court eunuchs were usually allowed entrance. Mharu-muc lounged on huge silk pillows which flattened beneath his massive bulk, the weight of which no couch or chair could seemingly hold. His bald head appeared small, almost infantile, matched with the fleshy overabundance of his disproportionate frame, which bulged, barely concealed, under the billowing swath of an azure-colored satin robe. His little piggish eyes, sharp and cold, and the only part of his immense body with the slightest animation, followed me calculatingly across the antechamber, which was strewn with priceless rugs and tapestries.

'Ah…the Southron envoy,' he hummed sleepily in a languid, almost feminine voice that belied his great girth, 'you have become…ummm…quite the novelty at court it seems. To have…accomplished…so much in so little time is noteworthy…for a threadbare diplomat without credentials. Yes, it has reached our ears that you seek…among other things…a boon for your master, the…renowned…corsair Kiryatin.'

I caught the meaning of '_among other things' _instantly: he knew of my relationship with Leannan; in fact, under his sleepy façade lurked a cunning malice that oozed from every word of his drowsy, almost hypnotic dialogue. Wishing to maintain a business-like stature, I refrained from deviating from my mission. 'Yes, your imminence,' I replied with a bow (I could not help the pun), 'it would be foolish of me to restate the request of my master, as I am certain that you have been made fully aware of my agenda. One in your esteemed position would not deign to grant an audience with a lowly diplomat, such as myself, without first being fully apprised of the situation.'

Mharu-muc licked his lips and stared at me as if I were a mutton-joint. 'Very… perceptive…my young friend…and this discussion is all about perceptions…is it not? Your master seeks…ummm…respectability, wishing to eradicate his rather…sinful past…with a forged legitimacy we alone can provide. Thus, he may build his little castles from the sands on some desolate shore without the stigma of…wantonness. '

The chief Castrati shifted in obvious discomfort, then snapped his pudgy fingers. Two younger eunuchs appeared from an adjoining alcove, and with some effort pulled the obese Mharu-muc to a sitting position. After the prodigious effort, they toweled away the sweat from their master's brow, and dutifully shrank back into the shadows after he waved them off with a flick of his bloated hand. 'But such are the fortunes of great men that they must…alter… the perceptions lesser men may have of them in order to reap even greater fortune. And Attar Kiryatin is a great man. There is a certain…ummm… ruthlessness…in him that we much admire. Were he a khan and not a corsair, perhaps he could have even joined in the bidding…for Princess Leannan.'

Mharu-muc smiled coyly as he noticed the near-imperceptible quiver of my lip at the mention of Leannan. 'Greagoir of Caladh, novelty acts do not last long in the court of Geas-Geata. Only the perception of power and those that direct the play behind the curtain last here. And the stage is set for our…grand finale. You have played your role, and won the plaudits of a certain captive audience, but it is time for you to…ummm… bow out gracefully, while you still may. We shall grant your master's boon. On the morrow you shall receive Kiryatin's birthright…fully recognized by the khan himself.'

'And the price?' I hissed, knowing full well the answer.

Mharu-muc placed a meaty finger on his swollen chin as if deep in thought. 'A thousand gold pieces for processing the paperwork,' he answered with a smug grin, 'and upon receipt of the pirate's prize, your…ummm…immediate removal from the palace back to your little island. I cannot guarantee your safety here should you…linger.'

I bowed and left the corpulent Castrati to his victory. Although I had succeeded in my mission and Kiryatin would receive his precious paper, I was a beaten man. In my youthful impetuosity, I had gained the love of one whom I could never hold, as forces greater than I had the power to rend us asunder. I was a fool in love: wise enough to comprehend the danger I was in, but foolishly hoping against hope that I could somehow embrace Leannan once more. I spent a sleepless night in my room -- pacing, ever pacing -- until such time in the morning when I met with court officials to complete the transaction. Trailed as I was by members of the Castrati, it was impossible for me to slip off to Leannan's suite of rooms, nor even send a note via a bribed servant. In dejected resignation, I boarded the ship that awaited me in the harbor, and it sailed with the morning tide, taking with it everything I had strived for in Geas-Geata.

Well, perhaps not all. You see, I paid the ship's captain handsomely to deliver the hard-earned documents into Kiryatin's hand; in return, the captain graciously afforded me the use of one of his skiffs, which I rowed back to shore before the ship reached open sea. Once on dry land, I made for the only place of safety left for a fugitive such as myself, banned as I was from the palace. I sought for a solitary place of somber grandeur and dark beauty; a place where I had met my heart's desire before it was a conscious yearning. In due time I struggled over the seaside-hills, and came upon the unearthly black minarets spiraling upwards from a drowned valley, and at last I gazed down upon the Sepulchre of Cui-Baili once more, that glorious tomb where another love from another time lay enshrined.

I knew not what I sought for, but I was certain in my hope: that a solitary figure would be there, keeping her lonely vigil, mourning the loss of Truth in Geas-Geata. I searched the grounds, and swung the gilded doors to the Sepulchre wide in desperation; but alas, it was as desolate as my heart. I stood before the great marble tomb in silent reflection, realizing at last the hopelessness of my plight. I was on an empty errand chasing ghosts, when I should have been onboard a ship -- sad and miserable, perhaps -- but at least on my way homeward. In the depths of despair, I turned to leave, wondering what misbegotten paths I must now tread that would lead eventually back to Marannan-astair.

'By the stricken look on your face is see you have found the only Truth that remains here in this place where Truth has been abandoned: we are all alone, striving for naught against the tide which ever seeks to force us under. Would it were that you had never spoken to me on that fateful day in this place of mournful shadows.'

She was standing at the door, lovely and as melancholy as the day I first met her. In my grief, I had not heard her enter. I offered a forlorn bow and replied, 'Had I never met you, I would never have known love, my lady, and by the absence of your presence I would be but a mere shadow, haunting the steps of greater men. I, who had ink for blood and eyes only for words filling empty pages, have become a man. I would trade a life's worth of blind, plodding happiness for this moment of exalted sadness. Whatever cruel fate betides us, you and I are here; that is the only truth I need.'

She smiled and my sorrow left me. 'Ah, Greagoir,' she sighed, 'ever the optimist, ever the poet, ever the dreamer.' She hesitated and then gazed upon me with her green eyes flecked with gold, a verdant meadow bedewed in the glories of spring; a place of pastoral tranquility where even now I sometimes wander. 'But the dreamer has dreamt a dream so wondrous that it has enveloped my heart as well.'

We walked hand-in-hand from the silent Sepulchre and strode the grounds until we came to the fragrant grove of magnolias. There she sat me down and kissed me tenderly. 'The time draws nigh when I must surrender myself to the whims of politics,' she said as tears whelmed the smile she tried so valiantly to hold, 'but I offer you a final gift from one seeker of Truth to another. You cannot hold it in your hand, nor will it ease the pain of parting, but it is that which has bound you and I beyond the mere constraints of bodily embrace. Greagoir, you have a mistress with whom I never could compete, nor would I wish to, for she resides in me as well; therefore, my gift is one of lore, your true passion and life-long ambition. I give you the triumph and tragedy of Cui-Baili, the last emperor of Tsin-Quinqan.'


	15. Chapter 15

**CHAPTER XV: **_**The Rise of Cui-Baili **_

It has been said that the wise and steadfast rule of Cui-Ealain ushered in the last great flowering of civilization in Tsin-Quinqan, and set the stage for the glorious reign of his son, Cui-Baili. But Cui-Ealain was gentle of disposition, and concerned for the welfare of his people; therefore, he did not venture forth into open war against the rising tide of Balchoth aggression, rather, he strengthened his borders and sought alliances to stem Khamul's ambition for empire. In this Cui-Ealain was only partially successful. Although the empire of Tsin-Quinqan and the realms of the north spent many years in relative peace, Khamul and the Balchoth horde soon occupied all the lands of wide Hildorien, from the Orocarnis to the Eastern Ocean, and the barbarity by which the Lord of the Balchoth conquered this great expanse has become legendary in the extent of the bloodshed and the bestial cruelty visited upon those enslaved. Ever after, Khamul would be known as 'The Butcher' for his ruthless slaughter of those who opposed him, and for the innocents whom he killed whenever the grim whims of maniacal madness took him. Whole regions were laid to waste in retribution for any act of defiance, and such was the depravity of Khamul's reign that countless cairns of piled skulls were used as milestones to demarcate the roads throughout the Butcher of Balchoth's bloody empire.

But Cui-Ealain was not untouched by the tumult that threatened to engulf even his great kingdom. As befell his grandsire, Cui-Chullain, Cui-Ealain was stricken with a baffling wasting sickness that many of the wise deem was an act of vengeance on the part of Sauron himself: a slow poison that paralyzed not only the victim by degree, but his empire as well. With the Emperor in the throes of agonizing pain, he was unable to administer his vast holdings, and as he lingered bed-ridden for many months, the rule of Tsin-Quinqan was left to ambitious and cunning men who factionalized the government, sent the emperor's most loyal advisors into exile, reduced the effectiveness of the empire's defense in lieu of their lavish greed, and sought to influence and bully Cui-Ealain's young son, Baili. As his father hovered at the doors of death, Baili, then only sixteen, suffered the patronization and outright threats of those who intended to control him with feigned humility and meekness. But beneath the mild exterior and seeming inexperience of youth, there beat the heart of a lion, and a wisdom that belied the prince's tender years.

In concert with the exiles and the marshals of the imperial army, who maintained a dogged loyalty to his House, Baili secretly plotted the overthrow of the grandees who threatened the stability of Tsin-Quinqan. On long watches in the night, Baili spoke in desperate whispers with his dying father, who well understood the turmoil surrounding his deathbed, but was unable to lift his head, let alone overcome the forces of sedition and disloyalty that teemed around the untried prince. Yet, for a time, Cui-Ealain overcame the pains that wracked his body; and in hushed tones, with his teeth gritting as spasms whelmed him, the emperor patiently taught the art of wise governance to his beloved son. When the great emperor finally expired, Baili was full ready to seize the reign of Tsin-Quinqan back from the hands of those who would destroy his empire.

After the requisite period of mourning for the death of Cui-Ealain, the peace-loving and farsighted emperor beloved by his grateful people, the coronation of his son, Baili, was announced throughout the land. Yet it was in the minds of those of the opposition party, stirred, no doubt, by the coming of the aged Baolach, who had returned again as envoy for the Balchoth seemingly in the very hour when Cui-Ealain first fell victim to the mysterious malady which eventually caused his painful death, that a child-emperor would sit uneasily upon the throne, given the matters of grave import that stirred the Eastern World. Baolach's intentions were two-fold: first, that Tsin-Quinqan should become a vassal-state of the ever-expanding empire of the Balchoth; second, who better to lead this peaceful transition than the House of Baothan, headed, of course, by the venerable Baolach himself, and his son Baolard? Thus, Baolach would fulfill the wishes of his master, Khamul, who sought to dominate the East in its entirety, and in the process visit his revenge upon the House of Cui-Chullain, who had usurped the throne from his father so many decades earlier. This overarching goal the bitter old man instilled with unswerving severity in his pliant and vicious son, Baolard, who had become a great warlord in the service of Khamul. But despite the secret machinations of Baolach, in tandem with the ambitions of those avaricious lords of Tsin-Quinqan who also sought to overthrow the present regime, they did not take into account the fortitude of young Baili.

At his coronation, surrounded as he was by his enemies, Cui-Baili ascended the throne of his father like a lamb in the midst of a pack of plotting wolves. But before the long-knives could be drawn, Cui-Baili unleashed a counterattack that both dismayed and overwhelmed his oppressors. For Cui-Baili had moved his army in secret to surround his capitol, and a phalanx of guards, led by the trusted servants of Cui-Ealain who had surreptitiously returned from exile, burst into the palace and laid hands upon the would-be assassins of the newly crowned emperor. The youthful Cui-Baili drew the great-sword of his grandfather, Timur the Lame, and strode forcefully down from his imperial dais.

'Sad it is that the beginning of our reign should be overshadowed by deceit and treachery and threat of assassination,' Cui-Baili boomed angrily above the pandemonium that filled his court. And it has been said of that moment that Cui-Baili's voice was fell and his mien grim: not the childish bearing of a coddled princeling, but that of a fierce warrior king. 'But if it must be that the day of our crowning should be one covered in the blood of strife, let it be shed by the traitors of Tsin-Quinqan!'

Ignoring the pitiful pleas of mercy from the cowardly rebels, the wrathful Cui-Baili himself struck down ten of the Lords who were the chief instigators of insurrection, and when at last his angry retribution was slaked somewhat by the deaths of the plotters, he sheathed his bloody sword and stood menacingly before the elderly Baolach, who could not withhold his contempt for Cui-Baili, even though his aged body involuntarily quaked with fear.

'You may not lay hands on me!' the wizened Baolach spat with eyes averted. 'I represent the Lord of the Balchoth in all matters here; to harm me you attack Khamul himself!'

Cui-Baili glared coldly at the insolent old man. 'If what you say is true, Baolach,' Cui-Baili growled, 'then it is Khamul, lackey of Sauron the Great, who is responsible for the poisoning of my dear father! If that is the case, then you bear the burden of your master's sins. As you have stated quite plainly, you represent your Lord in all matters here.'

Baothan sputtered and digressed in a vain attempt to escape his own haughty words, but he had sealed his fate. In sudden fury, Cui-Baili violently grabbed Baolach by the throat and throttled him even as he cowered. As the limp body of the ancient enemy of his forefathers slumped to the floor, Cui-Baili named Khamul as the chief enemy of his House and of Tsin-Quinqan, and he declared open war against the Balchoth horde and all of their deluded allies.

And thus, it was that Tsin-Quinqan strove at last against the armed might of the Balchoth, and the gangrel forces unleashed by Sauron himself to aid Khamul in conquering the East. For the Dark Lord had sent legions of Orc from Mordor to do battle at the call of Khamul, so that the armies of darkness swelled to such immense proportions in that time that not even the disciplined cavalry and naval power of Cui-Baili could oppose them alone. For five years Cui-Baili endeavored mightily in seeming isolation to combat the monstrous threat of the Balchoth, and the young emperor's legendary battle prowess grew with every victory; but it became plain to Cui-Baili and his veteran advisors that each succeeding triumph was more dearly purchased, and that the enemy had an inexhaustible supply of mindless fodder to throw to the slaughter. Khamul's methods were crude compared to the wily stratagems of Cui-Baili, but in the end, limitless manpower would overawe even the most dauntless and cunning of foes.

As the noose grew tighter, Cui-Baili sent embassies to the four corners of the East, entreating the Free Peoples of the world who still remained unconquered to stand with Tsin-Quinqan, lest they all be overwhelmed individually. The envoys journeyed to the deep deserts and over the great seas to the south, and even to the hidden enclaves of Dark Elves and Dwarves who made their homes in the Orocarnis. The delegations of the emperor found many a sympathetic ear with their earnest pleas for unity where perhaps none may be found at other, less dire times; for even in the folly of prejudice and pride, self-preservation might motivate rulers who otherwise seek their own limited interests.

The King of the Blacklock Dwarves was just such a ruler. Seeing his trade slashed and markets destroyed by the ruthless hand of Khamul, the Dwarf King felt the tug at his purse strings most dearly, and no love had he for the pillaging Orcs who multiplied outside his mountain gates (the Blacklocks had not yet entered into trade with Mordor). So too, the Hetman of the Rus despised the Orc, who preyed upon his herds and ate the flesh of his prized horses. The Rus tribes had been driven further and further north from their ancestral southern ranges by the heavy hand of the invading Balchoth and marauding Orc, until they were forced to eke out an embattled existence on the marges of the Roaring Waste. There they came into conflict with the fierce desert tribes over the oases that were the life's blood of that sere and inhospitable region. Alone of the free peoples whom Cui-Baili's delegations sought out, the Dark Elves proved the most elusive.

MorThoiriol, Lord of the Dark Elves, welcomed the envoy of Tsin-Quinqan most hospitably -- a rare thing in itself, as the Dark Elves were long estranged from the world of Men -- and he listened gravely to the ambassador's request for aid. But the immortal Dark Elf, though courteous, was unmoved by the strident warnings of Cui-Baili's servant. MorThoiriol's woodland realm remained untouched by the mayhem of the Balchoth, and the Elves had ever weathered the ebb and flow of the fleeting ambitions of Men. In a brief span of time -- a single season to the deathless Elves -- the danger would fade as the present generation of Men, and then the ones after, grew old and died. When the ambassador reminded the Dark Elf that Sauron, he who it was that drove Khamul and the Balchoth forward into madness, was immortal as well, MorThoiriol was troubled, but had no answer. The Lord of the Dark Elves promised to give thought to Cui-Baili's proposal, but the envoy of the emperor left the northern realm of the Elves empty-handed, and disappointedly returned to Tsin-Quinqan with naught but well-wishes for Cui-Baili.

And so the stage was set for Cui-Baili's final gambit -- a strategy fraught with peril, perhaps, but a calculated maneuver done without desperation. The Emperor of Tsin-Quinqan played upon Khamul's thirst for a quick and decisive triumph, driving the unwitting Balchoth inland and away from the coasts with continuous harrying actions by his imperial navy, aided by an unlikely flotilla of Southron corsairs. Then by a series of feints and sudden retreats, Cui-Baili's army drew the greedy Khamul from his power base in Hildorien, northwestward, ever closer to the barren lands of the Desert of the Roaring Waste.

Early on in his reign, Cui-Baili, with the foresight accorded to those of his House, had made accommodations with the desert folk, taking them under his protection and annexing a great area of land east of the Roaring Waste, building trading posts adjacent to each oasis so that the desert tribes might get access to foodstuffs and utensils that were unavailable to them previously. The greatest of these trading posts, Bajazet, quickly became a city unto itself, walled and manned with a garrison. In a matter of few, short years Bajazet rose to the status of provincial capitol, flourishing with trade to and from Tsin-Quinqan. It was at Bajazet where Cui-Baili would turn to fight with his back to the desert, but with huge stores of water available to his troops and allies; whereas the Balchoth and their Orkish mercenaries would have chased shadows down the long, dusty miles, finding themselves at the last in a land devoid of forage and lacking water under a searing desert sun.

But Cui-Baili had not counted on the evil influence of Sauron, and the ring by which he wielded power through his servant, Khamul. Vast were the armies of the enemy that merged upon Bajazet, and the innumerable and hardy Orcs, used to living with deprivations, attacked mercilessly at night, whilst the Balchoth continued the offensive during the day. If it were not for the stubborn and hard-bitten defense raised by the Blacklock dwarves, Cui-Baili's positions would have been overrun within the first few days of action. Cui-Baili's men fought valiantly as well, and every inch of ground Khamul bought was done so at the cost of ten or twenty of the Balchoth and Orc to every one of the free peoples. But Khamul spent freely the lives he so casually threw at Cui-Baili, as he had reserves to spare, and the death of so many was an incidental expense for ultimate victory. Cui-Baili's cavalry became severely depleted after issuing forth on countless sorties, and the concerned emperor asked a chieftain of the Rus why the Hetman of all the Rus tribes had only sent a mere handful of horsemen to aid in the battle.

'Hetman shall come,' the Rus replied with an enigmatic smile, 'he shall come in his own time.'

And the Hetman did come, but in a manner which dramatically turned the tide of battle. For the great Hetman, lifelong enemy of the Dark Elves, his tribe's bitterest foe, swallowed his pride and hatred and came before the Lord MorThoiriol, and made a plea for aid on bended knee. This the Hetman did, he said, not for himself or his people, but for the herds of horses that both the Rus and the Dark Elves deemed precious, those noble creatures that were now being indiscriminately slaughtered by Orc for meat. Thus the Lord of the Dark Elves, concerned for the plight of Men, but unwilling to commit the lives of his subjects to their defense, became wrathful and rose in anger from his throne.

'No need have thee to kneel before us, Hetman,' MorThoiriol seethed. 'Enemies we have been, and mayhap shall remain; but I shall go with thee now and fight for that which we both hold dear. None shall say of the Elves that they sat silently by while the splendid scions of Naihaer_ Gan Athair, _the fatherless stallion of _Araugh_, fell senselessly to Orkish rabble. It is the spawn of Mordor who shall die!'

On the fifth day of battle, with the brutal sun at last beginning its slow descent into the realms of night, the combatants beheld great clouds of dust engulfing the western horizon like the onset of a violent desert storm. There was a sound of rumbling thunder, and flashes of heat lightning seemed to spark up from the ground in the distance. But no storm of nature was this, for the earth quaked from the pounding of hooves in their thousands, and the glint of lightning was of cold steel: the swords of the armies of the Dark Elves and the Rus, raised together in defiant anger. And there, on the parched plain before Bajazet, the greatest riders of the Eastern World, both Men and Elves, fell upon the western flank of the Balchoth horde with such fury that Khamul's army crumbled, the left collapsing in chaos and fear into the center. Orcs gibbered and Men wailed as great stallions ran them down and the relentless blades of the Dark Elves flashed like scythes through a bloody harvest. The Dwarves then rose from behind their fortifications, bellowing their Khuzdul war cries attacked the floundering enemy center with mattock and axe, and the imperial warriors of Tsin-Quinqan did the same on the right, using the name of their emperor, Cui-Baili, as their rallying cry. And Cui-Baili did meet his House's sworn enemy, mighty Baolard, son of Baolach, son of Baothan, in mortal combat and slew the last of the line of traitors to Tsin-Quinqan.

Khamul's grand army, the horrible horde of the Balchoth, was in complete rout. Despairing of the battle, Khamul turned to flee, but he was unhorsed by a sudden, jarring collision. Dazed, the Chieftain of the Balchoth glared indignantly up at the one who dared unseat him, and beheld MorThoiriol, Lord of the Dark Elves, astride his black stallion. The Dark Elf perceived the Ring of Power Khamul wore, and by its hidden malice, knew full well from whence it came.

'The Master of Corruption has forsaken thee, mortal,' the Dark Elf intoned as if leveling a curse. 'Rid thyself of that evil ring and perhaps thou shalt receive a measure of redemption before a death beyond death takes thee!'

At the mention of the ring, a strange light burned in Khamul's eyes, shining red as if coruscated by some preternatural flame. The fallen Balchothard spat and brandished his sword in defiance. 'Speak not of that which you fail to understand, Elfling Prince!' Khamul howled. 'I have paid dearly for this ring, more so than the likes of a petty Dark Elf shall ever know. It is mine, and I would die a thousand deaths rather than be parted from it!'

'And die you shall,' MorThoiriol replied as he leaped from his horse, 'whether here on this field by my hand, or in some other desolate place.' And with the prescience of the Firstborn he added, 'Even though you shall breathe the rarified air at the pinnacles of power, you shall again be abandoned by your fickle master in the very hour of triumph; yet in my heart I feel it shall be accounted a blessing for the world and for you, yourself, if I kill you now. Naught will come of your living but death!'

And they crossed swords with such a fury that the mayhem of the battlefield died away, and it seemed that the only two combatants were the Balchothard and the Dark Elf. The two proved to be an even match, for Khamul was buoyed by the Ring of Power, and countered MorThoiriol's millennia of martial skill with the full malevolence of Mordor. They hacked and hewed with ripostes and parries until their mail was rent and notches pitted their blades; still they fought on, wounded but unwavering. But Khamul was a mere mortal, and could not match the limitless stamina of the Firstborn. With his endurance flagging, Khamul could not deflect a wicked slash to the throat by the Dark Elf's dagger -- as MorThoiriol wielded two blades in the style of his kindred -- and wounded sorely, the Balchothard staggered backward, gasping as he reeled. Yet a capricious whim of fate stole victory from the hands of the Dark Elf on that day.

Scattered bands of Balchoth, fleeing this way and that in blind retreat, interrupted the exchange between Khamul and MorThoiriol. The Ring of Power still proved a potent weapon in that Khamul, through force of will, managed to regain control of his retreating men, training them like puppets against the Dark Elf. The followers of Khamul attacked the Lord of the Dark Elves with abandon, mindless of their own doom, while Khamul stood and gloated.

'We shall meet again, Dark Elf. O yes, we shall meet again!' Khamul rasped as the remnants of the Balchoth fell upon MorThoiriol. 'Your vaunted skills shall not avail you when my Lord Sauron comes to hunt you down like a dog!'

With no further care for the outcome of the battle, Khamul turned his back on his men, mounted a stray horse, and disappeared, bloodied and alone, into the desert. MorThoiriol watched in vain as his prey escaped, even though he and Elves of his House, who had come up to support him, made relatively short work of the band of Balchoth who hindered the Dark Elf's pursuit. But thought of the chase left MorThoiriol then, although he would later rue the decision, and he returned to the main engagement, which was in the final, brutal stages of defeat for the once mighty Balchoth horde. And some say the justice meted out by the armies of the Free Peoples was, on that day, as cruel as that of the Balchoth during their conquests: many there were of the Rus and the desert tribes who had lost family to the Horde as their lands were invaded, and they were merciless in their exaction of vengeance; and of the Orc, the Dwarves and Elves gave them no quarter, as they expected none themselves. Needless to say, no Orc survived the onslaught, and very few of the Balchoth escaped to their great camps in Southern Hildorien. Thus decimated and leaderless, the Balchoth again became a nomadic race like their forefathers. Driven like vermin from their ancestral homelands by vengeful neighbors, the remaining tribes of the Balchoth passed south and west of the Orocarni Mountains, eventually settling in the sparse regions of Rhun and Khand. Ever after they were an unsettled and grim people, recounting their former glories and extolling visions of a new empire from one generation to the next.

The Battle of Bajazet proved to be the high-water mark for grand alliances in the East. Soon after, ancient animosities and prejudices reared their ugly heads, and either drove many of the races into isolation, or back onto a war-like footing against their former comrades-in-arms. Never again would such group of august princes field such a diverse and formidable army as the one gathered before the gates of Bajazet. In this sundering of the Free Peoples Sauron certainly had a hand, but the inherent greed or mistrust one race had for another cast a pall on the kingdoms of the East, and the divisions remain to this very day.

But Cui-Baili returned to Tsin-Quinqan in triumph after the battle, and was acclaimed a hero throughout his empire. Not content to rest on his laurels, Cui-Baili continued the reforms his father, Cui-Ealain, had begun. So wise were the emperor's pronouncements that he was accorded the title 'Law-giver', and the disparate peoples that made up his vast empire -- whether wholeheartedly or begrudgingly -- chose to abide peacefully under his rule, so that prosperity and learning grew apace in every region of the realm. It was in that time -- truly the golden years of Tsin-Quinqan -- that Cui-Baili at last laid down his sword and considered the need for an heir to continue the legacy of his great House. So he took to wife Banrion, of the House of the former king of Noor, and grandniece of Baolach. In this union Cui-Baili wished to bind further the still-potent noble families of his far-flung empire to his rule, and mitigate any factionalization of the sort that caused mayhem during the waning years of his father's reign.

Banrion was a great beauty, dark and fiery, and an unlikely love sprang from this arranged marriage, the likes of which is rare with such dynastic contracts. Of Cui-Baili it is said that he indulged his willful young empress overmuch, acquiescing to her whims as a doting father might to a spoiled child. But the headstrong Banrion pleased Cui-Baili immensely with her humor and high spirits, easing the tedious and grueling days of administration to an empire. For Tsin-Quinqan had grown to encompass all the lands south down the coast of the Eastern Ocean to the Strait of Enegaer, west to the Desert of Roaring Waste, and north to the desolate moors and rocky highlands along the frozen Outer Sea. And the imperial couple grew even closer when it was announced that Banrion was with child.

Greagoir broke off from Leannan's tale abruptly. He stared off blindly as one caught in a daydream, and he shed a single tear. Tatya was so engrossed in transcription that at first he failed to notice his master's bitter reverie.

'Master?" Tatya beckoned with growing concern, as Greagoir had grown strange these last few days while recounting this memoir.

Greagoir glanced in his apprentice's direction and nodded a melancholy acknowledgment. "But Leannan's tale went unfinished;" he at last mused, "for the palace guards again marched sternly into the grove, and above the protestations of Princess Leannan, took me prisoner. Behind the retinue of soldiers who had bound me fast there followed an ornate litter carried by ten large eunuchs, straining as if under an immense weight, and lounging atop the litter, redolent in silk, was the grossly obscene figure of Mharu-muc. He glared at me with his pig-eyes blazing, but then fell back into the hooded languor and singsong ease with which I had been accustomed.

" 'Ah, the Southron diplomat and…novelty,' he sighed mellifluously, 'scarcely two days ago I personally intimated a foreboding for your…safety. 'Tis a pity I had not warned you more…stridently…about the danger. But now our glorious Khan sees you as an…impediment…to his royal will, and as the Khan's most…loyal…subject, I must…humbly…accede to his command.'

" 'You have no power here, eunuch!' Leannan shouted indignantly, but she, too, was restrained by the guards. Trying to pull away, but finding herself still held fast, she glared icily at Mharu-muc and continued, 'What means this? A princess of the line held by her own men? Traitors and blackguards! Eunuch, you go too far, my father shall hear of this!'

"The porcine eunuch frowned sadly at the outraged princess, and replied in a sympathetic tone that barely cloaked his contempt, 'Forgive me, your Highness, but perhaps you have not heard: this whole…unseemly affair…has taxed the Khan overmuch. He has been taken abed with…fever. I am merely following his final orders before he…fell into unconsciousness.'

" 'You lie!' Leannan shrieked in dismay, 'Ever have you sought to undermine my father and usurp his power! You are no man, but an impotent creature of the dark. You are naught but a mule who aspires to run with the stallions. I shall see you thrown down!'

"Mharu-muc smiled sardonically. 'I am…what the Khan has made me,' he drawled with a hint of malice. 'I am merely…repaying him…for his efforts. But you, your Highness, must make ready. You are to be wed to the son of the Khan of Talamh in three days time. The Khan of the Talmhai shall brook no delays, for he has paid…dearly…to win your favor.'

"Mharu-muc snapped his fat fingers and a portion of the guards marched off with the Princess Leannan, who could only glance forlornly at me, her soulful eyes veiled with tears. With the princess forcibly returned to the palace, Mharu-muc trained the full weight of his derision on me. 'And so comes the final act of the…drama…and the curtain is drawn shut,' he spoke with languid cheerfulness, well pleased with himself. 'But as for you, my naive friend, the…tragedy…has just commenced. Our guards shall find you…suitable accommodations…for the night, and on the morrow some…acquaintances of mine… shall take you to a new stage…in the slave bazaar of Bajazet. Farewell, young fool! Let this be a lesson in…statecraft…you shan't forget in what remains of your miserably short life.'

"I was shackled and dragged from the hallowed grounds of the Sepulchre, yet my thoughts were not for my dire situation; rather, they remained on the lovely, sad Leannan, and the ache in my heart proved greater than the biting of my bonds. It was still early in the afternoon when I was thrown into the dank dungeon below the palace to await my sentence, and the slavers from Bajazet, preparing for their journey the following morning, came to my cell to appraise their acquisition. At first I cared not to look at their gloating, greedy faces, but there was something familiar in their guttural whispers. I lifted my head and turned towards the shadowy figures, barely illumined in the torch-lit hall.

" 'You think you smart, eh, scribe?' one of the men said with a scornful snarl. 'You judge me, you send me to die with smile on your face! It is I who judge you now, scribe!'

"There was no mistaking the voice and the fierce, amber-yellow eyes which glared wolfishly at me from the flickering semi-light of the corridor. Marfach-suil, the treacherous caravan-master, had somehow escaped justice and death, and by a bitter twist of fate our paths had crossed once again."


	16. Chapter 16

**CHAPTER XVI: **_**Of Pearls, Pipes and Peers**_

After chores and supper were out of the way, Tatya hurriedly sharpened a goose quill or two in preparation for Greagoir's continued account of Geas-Geata and his sad affair with the Princess Leannan. In his five years of apprenticeship under the master-scribe, Tatya felt he had long been reduced to a mere cipher for interminable recitations on frayed and faded legends; suddenly, however, Greagoir had gushed forth with a literal torrent of spell-binding tales, particularly those involving the master's colorful and nomadic youth.

Greagoir's engaging memoirs changed Tatya's perception of the scrivener's trade from one of rote dreariness, punctuated here and there with a blessed day of rest, to a life of limitless possibilities (depending, of course, on one's ability to overcome the repetitive monotony attendant in copywriting). Such stirring stories gave the orphaned apprentice, a lonely indentured servant named Tatya Reecho, hope that one day he, too, could strike out on his own and experience all the good and bad, the wild and wonderful, which the wide world had to offer. Lurking as he was behind Greagoir's chair, even the blind scribe took notice of Tatya's anticipation.

"Blast it, Tatya!" Greagoir boomed in irritation, "Must you hover about me like some annoying little bat? Have you finished your chores?"

"Yes, master," Tatya replied.

"Washed the bowls and spoons?"

"Yes and yes."

"Weeded the garden?"

"Completely."

"Broomed the floor? Spread new rushes?"

"Done and done."

"Hung the clothes out to dry?"

"Finished and folded as well."

The flummoxed Greagoir scowled in certain defeat, but then a sly smirk surged across his lips. "Scoured out the chamber pot?" he retorted smugly.

Tatya's air of confidence suddenly deflated. "Errr…well…no," he mumbled in sudden indecision, "ummm…must I?"

Greagoir laughed aloud for the first time in several days. "Nay, Tatya, in lieu of my hard-earned victory, I believe the shite can wait."

One thought pushed out the other, and Greagoir began rummaging about in his robe, and like a fumbling magician, he pulled out a black pearl the size of a robin's egg. He rolled it about between his fingers, and then gently handed it to Tatya. "It is very rare," he said reverently. "It is said that in all the world only two such sea-beds exist where thrive the great clams which produce pearls of this size; and of these, black ones appear only once in ten-thousand culls. I have kept this pearl with me through all the long years since Geas-Geata. It was a gift from Princess Leannan."

Tatya sat transfixed, staring in wonder at the astounding pearl. He held it to the light and was staggered by its opalescent beauty. To say it was merely black in color would be an understatement, for it glistened with tinges of purple and burgundy and the deepest blue. Perhaps all the colors were horded inside this nacreous orb, and teased those that beheld it with brief flashes of the luminous hues that roiled beneath its surface. Tatya looked askance at Greagoir momentarily and thought of the vast sums of gold this rarest of pearls could fetch. With proceeds from the sale, they would neither have to live in poverty, nor would the master ever again have to beg for his pension before the haughty Peer Kiryatin.

Then Tatya saw the sorrow etched on the old man's face. After all these years, he still grieves for the Princess! Greagoir, that distant scholar seemingly consumed from childhood by one over-arching mission, had known a love every bit as rare and exquisite as this bauble. The apprentice shook his head in a moment of shared sadness and carefully guided the black pearl back into his master's hand. Such a thing is priceless for more than just its rarity as a commodity on the open market, Tatya thought, and no amount of coin could equal the value of the great vault of memories housed within that small sphere of lustrous black.

Greagoir grasped the pearl tightly in his fist, leaned back in his chair, and stared vacantly up at the ceiling. After several minutes, and only after Tatya assured himself that his master was not sleeping, did the apprentice clear his throat with a loud "AHEM"!

"I am well aware you are waiting, Tatya," Greagoir croaked resignedly, "but I am trying to gather my wits." He finally lowered his head from its reclined position and cast a blind eye in Tatya's direction. "Not an easy thing to do when you're a witless old fool!"

"Perhaps you might find your wits more easily if I made you some tea?" Tatya grumbled snarkily, fully aware that his inapt choice of words could be construed as confirmation of the master's witlessness; but Greagoir lumbered on, oblivious of the jab.

"Tea? Bah! Another Hobbitish concoction!" he barked in a sudden display of animation. "A strange, little race, those. Saved the world once, but mark my words: that damnable pipeweed of theirs will be the eventual ruin of more folk than the Ring they destroyed!"

This condemnation of pipeweed, however, got Greagoir to thinking of pipeweed in general, and of smoking specifically. In another few moments, he was puffing away with great celerity on a bowl he had ordered Tatya to stoke for him. Greagoir blew a languid smoke ring that wafted lazily to the rafters, then heaved a rumbling sigh. "Never have I spoken of the events surrounding my mission in Geas-Geata, Tatya," he muttered sadly. "Not even Peer Kiryatin is aware of my travails." The scribe clenched the pipe-stem between his teeth, and added circumspectly, "Nor would he have cared, truthfully; particularly upon duly receiving his forged birthright via the ship-captain I so handsomely bribed. That I did not return along with his precious parcel Kiryatin merely ascribed to my scholarly eccentricities."

"He did not question your absence?" Tatya asked, hoping that such a question would induce his master to begin recitations.

"Nay," the scribe replied, shaking his head somberly, "Kiryatin is a rather selfish sort, being a corsair, after all. He had gotten what he sought; that I had not arrived with his prize mattered not at all, save for his concern for whatever funds he thought I might have absconded with. Fortunately, I had hidden away what was left of the pirate's gold prior to being arrested in the grove of the Sepulcher. Naturally, he blistered the air with curses and had a knife to my throat when I at last returned, but our belated reunion became more civil when I handed over a cask full of his coin. Yet I was never in any real danger of having my throat slit, as the corsair still had need of me."

"For you see, during my extended absence Kiryatin had discovered, to his chagrin, that merely having proof of noble birth in one's possession does not necessarily elevate one to a position of noble status. One could have enough paternal papers penned to wrap a pirate princeling in, yet still not be accepted into the ruling caste: introductions must be made, appointments must be secured, and wheels must be greased. For that, Kiryatin still required my inestimable services. He may well have been a successful corsair, if success in that bloody profession equates to the greatest amount of loot massed while escaping the gallows; however, he was not adept at dealing with this different breed of pirates: urbane and crafty brigands who operated within the law (for they, in fact, wrote the laws), and who plundered through taxation and foreclosure rather than brazen outlawry, and sent men to their deaths not with blades wielded by their own hands, but by legal writs from the poison pens of magistrates." Greagoir smiled gloatingly for a moment and added, "For an infamous corsair, Kiryatin was certainly out of his depths! Hah! He could barely tread water!"

Tatya frowned and rolled his eyes. He disliked Peer Kiryatin immensely, and was uninterested in the old pirate's deceitful rise to power. Before his master ran too far a field, Tatya made a valiant effort to steer Greagoir back on course. "But whatever became of Princess Leannan?" he asked rather abruptly.

Regretfully, Tatya realized he had overstepped his intended mark and had hurt his master. Greagoir sat in stunned silence, as if he'd been slapped in the face. His lips moved inaudibly for an instant, and then he said distantly, "Ah, yes, I haven't quite finished with Geas-Geata yet, have I?" He turned his face away from his apprentice and whispered to himself, "nor shall I ever."

But some bit of resolve remained in the old scribe, and he passed a hand over his eyes as if to regain his bearings. He laid his pipe aside absentmindedly so that ashes spilled across a well-worn table, and with a fierce intake of air and a long, labored exhale, he continued his tale:

"Marfach-Suil, exulting in his long-awaited revenge, left me to ponder my fate alone in the dank recesses of the dungeon while he and the slavers from Bajazet strolled off to bed, their cackling laughter and crass insults in their hideous dialect echoing down the dim corridors as they went. It was of a certainty that the former caravan-master would not suffer me to live once I was remanded to his custody. I most likely would not even survive the trip to the slave markets of Bajazet, a distant realm on the arid marches of the Desert of Roaring Waste. Marfach's bestial yellow eyes haunted the gloom of my cell as I lay sleepless atop the rank straw that made up my fetid bed. But I laughed at the irony of my situation. How appropriate that here, in my most desperate, agonizing hour, I should be a prisoner once again at the hands of that murderer! Fate could not have ordained a more absurd jest.

" 'How strange it is, my love, that you have been sentenced to certain death, and I to an uncertain life. I do not know which is preferable.'

"I thought I was dreaming, for somehow her lilting voice rang sad but clear in the depths of the darkened dungeon. Wishing to continue this pleasant fantasy, I obeyed the deluded whims of sleep and sat up drowsily to peer beyond the iron bars of my cell. But it was no dream that roused me from fitful sleep: she was there, her graceful outline illumined in the flickering torchlight.

" 'I cannot release thee from bondage, dear Greagoir," Leannan whispered somberly, 'for Mharu-muc has issued a death warrant for any that might aid you; and even I, the Princess of Geas-Geata, am unable to enlist accomplices who might overcome their own fear to accomplish this task. The dungeon guards risked much just to allow me this chance to see thee again.'

"I reached through the bars and clasped her hands and gently drew her to me. 'I have already suffered the only death that has meaning for me, Leannan. Your absence stilled the beating of my heart and stole my life's breath. I may still exist on this plane for a while longer, but life ceased to be when you were stolen away.'

"With tears clouding her eyes she kissed me. 'Ever the idealist; ever the poet, eh, Greagoir?' she replied with a winsome smile. 'But with what little prescience is still accorded to my dwindling line, I foresee a long life still ahead of you. Perhaps I cannot aid in your escape, but escape you must. Do not surrender to despair, I pray you, for there are countless songs left unsung and tales half-written. If you should fall, who then shall take up pen and paper and give shape and substance to the languishing shadows of the past? An age ago, the rape of the great libraries of the East marked the end of a glorious era: their facades were stripped, their precious contents pillaged, their once proud towers razed to the very foundations; and the long night fell. You carry the wavering torch of knowledge in these black lands -- bereft of a sense of history and purpose -- fallen prey to gluttonous hollow-men who stalk the dark nocturne of ignorance like jackals gorging at a carrion feast. In the West it is said wisdom is still accounted a virtue, and sage are those who rule their enlightened kingdoms; whereas in the East guile and wile -- the debased truths of the political animal -- crown the mendacious with undeserved influence.'

"Leannan paused to quell the deep-seeded ire that welled within her, and focused once again on me, for her eyes had strayed to the shadows and her thoughts dwelt on the certain dissolution of her realm. Her words may have been meant for me, but her venom was directed elsewhere: to Mharu-Muc, the devious, grossly rotund shadow-ruler of Geas-Geata. He had sold the realm out from under Leannan and her feeble father to the Khan of Talamh, and no doubt the eunuch would seek to reduce the unified khanate to his brand of puppet-mastery.

" 'But I shall stay with you here till morning, my love,' Leannan said with sudden boldness, 'and I shall give you a reason to live. For the tale I tell you shall hold dearly bought and worthy of remembrance.'

"Leannan handed me a great, black pearl, which she said I might perhaps use to bribe my captors once out of the dungeon. She kissed me tenderly once again, and then in the sing-song cadence of an ancient bard, she fell to talking of Tsin-Quinqan."


	17. Chapter 17

**CHAPTER XVII: **_**Banrion's Folly**_

The child so joyously anticipated by Cui-Baili and his Empress, Banrion, was stillborn, and the tragic loss of the babe cast a pall of despairing gloom over the imperial palace. Other children there were born to their union, but sadly, none survived past infancy. After several abortive attempts Banrion became barren, and as the empty years mounted it is said the impetuous empress became ever more vain and cruel and darkly envious. She banned mirrors from the palace, lest she be reminded of the passage of time, and banished from court any maid deemed fair among the nobility. She was quick to anger, and woe be to the servant who by some mischance erred in her presence! In her deepening mania, Banrion took to studying the stars, consulting with astrologers to divine a means of enhancing her fading fertility. When the fickle heavens failed to enlighten, she delved into the darker arts, consorting with self-proclaimed sorcerers in an effort to retain the appearance of everlasting youth. But naught did their philters and balms aid against the slow creep of advancing age, save to mask wrinkle with rouge and hide with henna hair of graying cast.

Cui-Baili became a somber and solitary figure, finding his wife had become a stranger to him. In her fervent but fruitless effort to bear an heir for the emperor, Banrion had lost that which had so enamored Cui-Baili to her during their youth: her laughter became mocking, her high-spirits mere extravagant whim, and her fiery passion now a coruscating jealousy. But Cui-Baili still sympathetically indulged his willful wife, commiserating in their shared sorrow and endeavoring to show her guidance and understanding in her growing eccentricity made manifest through loss, even though they now no longer shared a bed or the romance that had so warmed the palace earlier in their reign.

Eventually the rift between emperor and empress became profound, to the point where the estranged royal couple had separate courts, each unlike to the other as day is to night. Whereas Cui-Baili maintained the august and austere presence that was the noble hallmark of his forefathers, the court of Banrion became the gaudy and frivolous den of fortune-seekers, charlatans and freakish monstrosities. Banrion also attracted those voices of dissidence and rebellion who had seethed hidden and latent in the glorious years of Cui-Baili's masterful conquests, and she surrounded herself with men of cunning and evil intent. Many a conniving suitor found his way to Banrion's bed in the vain attempt of producing an heir to the throne; but like a black widow spider, the empress consumed her ill-fated favorites, leaving them dissolute and broken, or sentencing them to the assassin's blade if they became too brazen. Still, there was no shortage of starry-eyed adventurers or cynical flatterers to take the place of the fallen, nor wont of fawning sycophants, court-weary courtesans, misshapen midgets, lolling giants, sinister seneschals and devious diplomats to fill her obscenely gilt and garish palace.

But despite repeated warnings from his trusted advisors, Cui-Baili remained oblivious to the chancrous blister that festered beneath the glittering façade of Banrion's halls. Consumed with a lonely passion for the prosperity of his realm, Cui-Baili delved into the detailed workings of empire, forsaking personal pleasure and even sleep for the betterment of his people; and, although Tsin-Quinqan grew outwardly in magnificence, inwardly it became rotten at its very core. Perhaps if Cui-Baili had been less indulgent of his haughty wife, much sadness may have been averted, and the course of history in the East would not have plunged into the abyss of a long, dark age. But hindsight is the best sight, they say, and the self-inflicted blindness of the present precludes foresight into the future.

Some say that Banrion at last went utterly mad with yearning for an heir -- and thus regaining control over her husband and the throne -- having reached middle-age and the uttermost end of hope for offspring from her desolate womb. In her turbulent heart, she blamed the distant Cui-Baili for abandoning her, for casting her aside as a master of hounds would when putting down an old dam who could no longer whelp puppies. But this bitch still had fangs! Banrion secretly smiled in the slow seething of her madness, and thus she stooped to plotting for the succession to the throne. And she put forward her cousin, Baois, a bastard of the line of Baolach, to be her unwitting pawn in a dynastic game of cat and mouse. Of Baois, little can be said, save that he was a weak-minded youth, prone to stuttering when excited; but Baois' dullness and lack of diction were of little concern, for it was in truth Banrion whose machinations supplied his speech and controlled his every action.

Cui-Baili was at first amused with Banrion's less-than-subtle positioning of her lackluster kinsman as heir to the throne, but with time, the emperor discovered his estranged wife was deadly serious in her intent. Growing ever more concerned, Cui-Baili at last commanded Baois to appear before him. Much to Banrion's chagrin, the audience between the emperor and her protégé was held in private, depriving her the chance of speaking for the boy whenever he might stumble. And stumble he did. Certain that Baois had been well-prepared by Banrion for a test of his mettle in wise governance, the wily Cui-Baili spoke of everything but the empire and the rule of men. The emperor's subjects for discussion were varied and delivered in such a way that they seemed non-consequential and unobtrusive; yet every question was penetrating and pregnant with purpose, and every reply given by Baois revealed his true abilities and uncovered his gravest flaws.

In the space of a few hours, Cui-Baili had shrewdly ascertained the measure of the boy, and found Baois totally lacking in the qualities the emperor deemed necessary for an heir to the throne. The shy boy lacked subtlety of mind, and was easily intimidated, Cui-Baili rightly surmised; he would be a pawn for whichever stronger personalities might seek to corrupt his rule. But for all his faults, Cui-Baili found Baois to be inoffensive and gentle of manner when not overtaxed greatly. Discovering Baois was fond of horses, Cui-Baili offered the boy a post in his cavalry, as that of head-groomsman in the imperial stables. The delighted Baois, forgetting completely about kingships and crowns, eagerly accepted the position, stuttering in overenthusiastic thanks as he bolted from the emperor's halls.

Banrion was infuriated at the utter failure of the witless Baois, and she cursed Cui-Baili for turning her chosen heir-apparent into a mere stable-boy. The perceived insult was further magnified by her fawning followers, creatures who sought power merely for self-aggrandizement and the habituating allure of greed (and some, it was rumored, were in the secret employ of Sauron himself!). Their sly insinuations fanned the flames of Banrion's smoldering wrath, causing her to fly into an inchoate rage from whence there was no returning. And in this blind fury Banrion's inner-voices spoke plainly to her: 'If thou cannot produce and heir to the throne, then shalt thou take the throne for thyself!' Supremely confident in her strength -- as only one who is truly mad could be -- the deluded Empress gathered together those dispossessed Houses of the realm who still chafed at the yoke of empire, and with the goading whispers of her vainglorious vassals swarming in her head, Banrion set forth on the bloody path of open rebellion.

Yet from the very start, _Banrion's Folly_ (as it was later named), was ill-omened and beset with confusion. First, the Empress failed miserably in her attempts to bribe to her service the veteran generals of the imperial legions, all of whom remained steadfastly loyal to Cui-Baili. Second, in the dark tower of her pride, Banrion had overestimated the dubious prowess of her own forces, an ungainly confederacy loosely comprised of her own rash and luxury-loving vassals, private armies of unwilling conscripts and sodden retainers sent by the rebellious nobility, and fickle mercenaries culled hastily from the four corners of the empire. Finally, Banrion had unwisely appointed her personal favorites to marshal the army. These pampered princelings fell into immediate disfavor with the professional generals and captains among the retainers and mercenaries, who despised and disobeyed the unskilled fops, while they, themselves, wrangled for elite positions within their own ranks. Thus with nominal and fragmented leadership, Banrion's army, a great seething mass of disparate divisions, lumbered out to seek its foe.

Upon hearing from his spies of Banrion's treachery, Cui-Baili was saddened by the bitter turn of events, but adamant nonetheless that such a threat to his empire should be quelled without remorse; therefore, Cui-Baili set out with ruthless efficiency to vanquish the rebel forces. Cui-Baili was relentless in his prosecution of the war, choosing to once again don his bright mail and high-crowned helm and personally lead his armies into combat. Riding forth with his vaunted cavalry, Cui-Baili immediately took the offensive, and with a series of lightening-quick strikes to the rebel's flanks and rear, seized his enemy's supply train and destroyed what mounted forces his opponent could muster. With the confederates thus immobilized and lacking food or water, he delayed a direct attack with massed foot soldiers and cavalry for several weeks, forcing the rebels to forage the land about them until it was stripped bare. When Cui-Baili was assured that Banrion's army had scavenged the last morsel and were evermore sullen from privation, the Emperor fell with his main might on the listless and starving rebels.

Although the battle was never in doubt, and Cui-Baili's imperial forces inflicted a crushing defeat on Banrion's confederates, still there were, here and there, pockets of valiant resistance where rebel soldiers adhered to their captains' commands, holding their ground in futile defiance while their army collapsed about them. But without a unified strategy and central leadership, all such fierce bravery came to naught against such a disciplined and implacable foe. By noon, Cui-Baili's cavalry had overrun the rebel's center, driving an immense wedge between their left and right flank. With his enemy so divided, the Emperor marshaled his foot soldiers and decimated the rebel left, while the right flank of Banrion's army fell under withering volleys of arrows from the imperial archers. Cui-Baili's cavalry had run clear through the enemy lines and were waiting in the rear when the routed rebels at last broke and ran. As the acrid smokes of the battlefield mingled with the gloaming of dusk, Cui-Baili's victory was complete. So overwhelming was the Emperor's triumph that his reserves had not been pressed into battle at all, having only been used to round up the straggling remnant of Banrion's retreating army.

But Cui-Baili did not gloat on the utter defeat of the confederates. So unlike was he to the other brutal rulers of his time that he did not exact summary and cruel vengeance on his prone adversaries. In the magnanimous mold of his sire and grandsire before him, Cui-Baili granted a general amnesty to the weary and ragged bulk of Banrion's army, and offered positions in the imperial legions to those rebel captains who showed conspicuous bravery and unflappable leadership under trying circumstances. To the leaders of the rebellion, however, the Emperor's retribution was swift: the bellicose lords of the confederate Houses he did exile, and confiscated all their worldly goods to be distributed amongst the commoners -- the crofters, cotters and villagers -- who suffered greatly in the paths of the warring factions; the avaricious vassals of Banrion, those war-mongers and malingerers who incited the Empress to treason, Cui-Baili sold to the slave markets of Bajazet -- even then an iniquitous den of cupidity and commerce -- where they lived out the rest of their brief, miserable lives as human pack animals, trudging under heavy burdens back and forth across the newly created desert trade routes. This left but one malefactor for Cui-Baili to confront, one last rebel to contain: the Empress Banrion.

The Empress's ostentatious palace Cui-Baili had stripped of its gilt ornamentation, so that he might repay his generals for their unswerving fidelity, the lavish hanging gardens and grounds he decided would remain -- an evergreen memory of a love lost to madness and sorrow. And when the last of the tapestries had been torn down and the ornate furniture had been packed away, Cui-Baili somberly walked the wide, airy corridors that led through the center of the palace, his footsteps echoing in the empty expanse. There, at the far end of the great hall sat Banrion, clutching the arms of her throne defiantly as if she would not be moved when the soldiers came at last to collect her chair. She had the look of a caged animal, crazed and frightened as her enemies surrounded her; yet as she looked upon Cui-Baili her mood softened, as if conflicting forces did battle within her very soul. But such sentiment was transitory.

'Hail, the victor!' she said with a hint of malice as her madness returned. 'Look about thee, Cui-Baili,' she seethed, pointing with manic gestures at the threadbare palace, 'see now thy handiwork -- this final indignity thou hast wrought! Wilt thou strip me to naught as well, and cast me enchained to the slavers as thou hast done my retainers? Shall my continuing disgrace further ennoble the illustrious House of Chullain, and gain accolades for its scion, our most beloved Emperor?'

Cui-Baili stopped just short of the dais and looked piteously upon Banrion. 'There is no victory here, my queen,' the Emperor replied quietly, 'only loss. That I should have to witness such a day only brings me sorrow.'

'Ever the generous warrior, ever the benevolent prince,' Banrion hissed. 'Save thy generosity! I would rather have thee look upon me with scorn than have to endure thy pity! Thou didst abandon me years ago, and now thou seekest to cut the last, frayed cord!'

Cui-Baili gazed long upon the sad remains of a once vibrant soul, now crouched like some wild thing on the edge of her throne. There were no words he could say to assuage her bitter ravings, nor could his pity stay the command he must enforce. Banrion was a menace to the empire and to herself.

'Banrion…our empress and lady,' Cui-Baili said dispassionately, choosing his words carefully, but with full imperial force, 'extraordinary need impels us to cast aside personal considerations to ensure the greater good of our realm; therefore, we do henceforth banish thee for willful rebellion and grievous acts of treachery against us. Thou shalt be taken forthwith from here to a place of internment -- a tower, guarded and inescapable -- there to spend the remaining years of thy life. Thou shalt be well-provided for, with some of the luxuries thou hast become accustomed to; but thy every footstep shall be shadowed, and thy every utterance recorded. Never again wilt thou meddle in the affairs of state, nor have occasion to seize the reins of power. So sayeth I, Cui-Baili, Imperial Khan of Tsin-Quinqan.'

Banrion moved to snap again at Cui-Baili, to spew forth with vitriol how the Emperor had wronged her, but he merely raised his hand, and she stopped in mid-sentence. 'There was no need for thee to take my throne, milady,' Cui-Baili said sadly, 'for it was thine all along.'

To this, Banrion made no reply. Tears welled in her eyes as she watched her husband, the Imperial Khan, stride forcefully away from her. She would never see or speak to Cui-Baili again.


	18. Chapter 18

**CHAPTER XVIII: **_**The Apprentice's Daydream**_

Tatya tossed his quill aside in exasperation as Greagoir's grumbly snoring commenced. The apprentice hastily dried the ink on his parchment, and then went outside for a breath of fresh air, as the stale reek of pipeweed still inundated the cottage. With a stretch and an involuntary yawn, Tatya stumbled lazily from the porch and into the garden. Why Greagoir, being blind these many years, still insisted on the rigorous upkeep of the rose trellises, flowering bushes, hostas and box yews, was beyond the apprentice's comprehension. Perhaps, like Greagoir's precious Elves, the master wished to stay the advance of time and decay, keeping the garden inviolate: a living memory of his younger days when he was still sighted and could enjoy the bright dashes of reds, violets, whites and yellows.

It had been some time since the young apprentice had been away from the cottage and his elderly master. It was in late spring, Tatya recalled; but there was a time when he left on his own once a week (usually on Sundays), venturing the few miles it took to reach the great seaport of Caladh. He would spend hours walking aimlessly amidst the hustle and bustle of the bazaars: awash with the vivid colors of manifold fabrics, outrageously plumed birds, tropical fruits and vegetables, shining brass and ruddy copper; scented with the pungent aromas of spices, herbs and incense which barely masked the stench of discarded offal from the fish-mongers and butchers' blocks, and the rank refuse of the green-grocers; a swirling, hectic and discordant riot of strange folk from all corners of the East, hawking their wares from horse-drawn carts, single-wheeled barrows, or, for the more affluent vendors, stationary market stalls. Tiring of the teeming bazaars, he would journey to the quaysides and watch with envious excitement as single-sparred triremes, three-sailed junks, and many-masted galleasses vied for precious dockage in a maddening but majestic dance of arrival and departure in the sprawling harbor.

Yet always his wayward path led eventually to Wordwright Street, with its tottering post and beam buildings leaning precariously over the cramped and muddy lane, wherein resided the booksellers ('parsimonious parasites', as Greagoir called them), stationers, renderers (who practiced the revolting art of vellum-making), binders, illuminators and scribes, all densely packed one on top of the other up and down the narrow thoroughfare, or closeted away in dankly cavernous alleyways which crept like the shadowy legs of a supine spider from Scrivener's Square, where the street ended at the ramshackle guild hall.

There, within the dilapidated confines of the once-stately Scrivener's Hall, Tatya would seek out the boisterous camaraderie of the other scribal apprentices, sharing lewd limericks and bawdy sea chanteys, telling tall tales, or relating with indignant relish the latest degradations leveled by their overbearing masters -- commiserating over a bottle of purloined wine or cask of tepid ale, as is the wont of brash youths chafing at the restraints of authority. Tatya rarely said anything about his master, but the other apprentices, knowing Greagoir by his reputation alone, looked upon Tatya with pity, and heaped derision on the curmudgeonly bard. 'Greagoir the Mad' they styled him, forever lost in legends of his own making. But Tatya would merely shrug, smile and change the subject, for he had grown quite fond of the old man. He admired the master's wisdom and his zest for life, but most of all the apprentice discovered that, more and more, he wished to fill the great lorist's shoes and set off on his own journeys of discovery some day.

To Tatya's mind, it was the other apprentices who should be pitied, for their masters led drab work-a-day lives of mundane drudgery: accountants, merchants, barristers, bores. The miserable lots of his scribal comrades were to be that of bookkeepers, spending every waking hour filling ledgers with numbers, or as notaries, compiling tedious reams of legalistic hyperbole for lawsuits. Once the formulas were memorized, it all became rote gibberish, a mindless spewing of nonsense like so many worker bees disgorging their crops and never once tasting the nectar they stored. Even those lucky few who apprenticed for the position of court scribes to the great peers spent countless hours on nothing but bureaucratic reiteration and stale statecraft. But Tatya had gotten a taste of life on the open road, having joined Greagoir on his last few expeditions before the master's failing eyesight finally robbed him of his near-legendary treks across the trackless plains and deserts of the East, and the primeval forests on the dark continent of Mu across the straits to the south.

Tatya shrugged. "Yes, this is the life!" he muttered irritably under his breath, then kicked one of the bushes he had pruned earlier in the day.

He had never even seen a troll, nor one of those Hobbitish creatures Greagoir seemed to love and despise all at once. And the Elves? Merely more enchanted characters populating the stories the master was never at a loss for. Then it dawned on Tatya: what if Greagoir's endless recitations were in fact simply fables and folklore the blind old scribe had gathered from his travels? The other apprentices from the Scrivener's Guild certainly believed Greagoir was daft; could it be then that their scorn had actual merit? Had he blindly followed Greagoir about, hanging on his every word like some trusting puppy, while all along he was being made sport of – a bumbling boy bowing before a babbling buffoon? Recalling his fellow apprentices' mirthful sniggers and looks of pity every time Tatya spoke, it became suddenly evident to the young scribe that he was included with Greagoir in his mates' ridicule. He had been the oblivious butt of an ongoing joke, the punch line to a jest of which he was now only dimly aware. He kicked the bush again for good measure.

"Tatya, my lad," the master's voice rumbled enthusiastically from the cottage, as he was newly roused from his brief nap, "let us strike while the iron is still hot! For I am not yet tired and there is much I need to relate."

Tatya swore under his breath. Greagoir, in his dotage, was no longer aware when he was awake or when he slumbered. The apprentice felt betrayed by the master. How could he ever trust Greagoir again? Where were the proofs of his grandiose acquaintances, these great personages who enlivened his tales? Sullenly, he made his way back to the cottage, each step one of slow, trudging indifference towards an unwanted objective. Tatya wanted to run away, to return to the Scrivener's Hall and laugh again with his compatriots. His master had become a stranger to him -- an anchor weighted with lies -- an old man wrapping his failing years in a cloak of self-importance and falsity so as to keep warm during his inevitable journey to the other side.

But when Tatya reluctantly laid his eyes upon Greagoir once more, the master was still clutching the enormous Black Pearl of Leannan, a thing of incalculable worth that no ordinary man (or a an inveterate liar, for that matter) could possibly possess. Tatya became conflicted with doubt and veneration, wonder and wonder. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the great black staff leaning solidly against the wall -- a supposed gift from a wizard.

"Master," Tatya said hesitantly, hefting the unusually heavy piece of smooth, obsidian wood in his hand, "that wizard…Pallando, I believe you called him…you say you met him once?"

Greagoir caught the queer note in Tatya's voice, but shrugged off the incredulity wound about the question with humored irritability. "Blast it, Tatya!" he boomed. "Ever do your seemingly simple questions require day-long answers! A cunning device to slough off chores, to be sure, but I am not so dotardly as to be unable to see through your contrivances. Yet you are like a wavering shaft of young wheat, blown this way and that on capricious winds. At one moment you beset me with strident urgency to complete the tale of Cui-Baili -- smothering as a lap dog in search of a treat in his master's pockets -- then the next you wander off onto a wholly different road, forgetting the first path in a rush for more knowledge than that addled pate of yours can obviously hold! You ask much for little, and more for less."

Tatya knew Greagoir well enough to see that the master --without actually broaching the subject -- had found him out, and in his own inimitable and roundabout manner had laid bare the apprentice's disbelief. Abashed that he could have doubted the master, and more so that now the old scribe was aware of his doubt, Tatya mumbled miserably, "I merely wondered…it is nothing."

Greagoir smiled. "There are many impossible truths that make lies seem more palatable, Tatya," the master replied sympathetically, "and great tidal lies that whelm the sodden shores of sincerity . "A healthy skepticism is the sign of a well-rounded mind. I have not trained you these many years to be a blind cipher, merely regurgitating what you have heard into written blather filling empty pages. You shall take my place one day soon, or at the least that is my fervent hope. In order to continue the histories of the East, you must learn to separate the truth from the tale and the lie from the legend. Fables are fine for campfires and children's bedsides, but they are not seemly for the life's work of a scholar."

There was a twinkle upon the opaque cataracts that covered the old man's eyes. "As far as the wizard Pallando," Greagoir added, deftly changing the subject (much to the relief of a grateful Tatya), "he was and is of the Istari, an order most ancient and arcane, and not of the waking realms of mortal men. Many years ago I did indeed meet him, or rather he saved me from exposure and frostbite on the frozen rim of the Great North Sea, where he made his home in exile. The black staff is a testament of his friendship. There is no wood likened to it, save in the far west of the world."

Tatya looked more closely at the great staff. He had never examined it thoroughly, nor handled it for more than a moment. He had never considered the wood to be black in and of itself, rather he had considered the ebony hue to be the patina of aged varnish, turned dark by years of exposure to the elements and the sweat of the master's hand; but the gnarled root -- for so it seemed, as he had never seen a limb of a tree so contorted, burled and winding -- still gleamed dully as if newly hewn and carved, without a hint of shellac or stain. Yet even where there were gashes and splits from years of hard travel and expansion and contraction from heat and cold, Tatya could discern the blackness of the wood far beneath its weathered but still resilient surface.

"No magic is there in the staff," Greagoir continued while Tatya remained engrossed in his examination, "though such a wizard as Pallando or his brethren can imbue an implement with their innate power -- or magic, if you prefer the naïve superstitions of Men -- to meet their needs; but the power that lies within such a tool would diminish rapidly once the wizard no longer had use for it. Such a thing would only remain enchanted if the wizard surrendered some of his netherworldly force and placed his mark on the object forever. But that would require much effort on the part of the maker, and drain him of some or all of his essential nature: his power would then reside in the object itself, and be lost to him if the object were ever stolen or taken by force. Whoever wielded the object would then retain the wizard's expended energy, so long as the tool remained in their possession. The dire consequences of such a sundering of power can be seen in the loss and eventual destruction of Sauron's Ring, the ultimate folly of the ultimate gamesman."

All this talk of magic and wizards made Tatya uneasy, and he gingerly laid the staff aside (whether it had ever been enchanted or not). "Then Sauron was a wizard as well?" he asked, rather confused by the hierarchy of supernatural beings that seemingly lurked behind every doorway.

"No…yes…well, only in a manner of speaking," the flustered Greagoir replied. "You see, Tatya, it is Men who place such names on beings who are beyond their muddled comprehension, using ill-defined terms to make sense of that which defies their weak grasp of the Powers-That-Be. Sauron, Morgoth, the Valar and the Istari are all spirits of the same incarnation. Their powers may vary in magnitude and they may be of different orders, but whether they have been considered by Men to be good, evil or benign, they came to be before the making of the world, and were of one unified assembly, the Ainur. They are not merely immortal, they are infinite."

Greagoir took Tatya's continued silence to mean he was more than likely flummoxed. "But let us leave the concept of immortality for another day," the master sighed. "Pick up your pen and paper and let us return to Tsin-Quinqan. I wish to finish this episode before we become further enmeshed in the vagaries of the Valar. Time is fleeting, and there is much left that has yet to be written."

Tatya did not like the Greagoir's continued references to the brief span of time that remained to them, but spurred on by the master's sense of urgency, the apprentice quickly began to scribble as the old scribe recited.


	19. Chapter 19

**CHAPTER XIX: **_**The Fall of Cui-Baili**_

With the rebellious noble Houses now in exile, and Banrion banished to a lonely castle by the sea, Cui-Baili again delved into the minute workings of empire, eschewing personal gratification for the satisfaction of ordering his splendid realm. Betrayed by his empress, the emperor withdrew his trust in the intentions of those closest to him, and he became cynical and bitter to even those who had remained loyal during the rebellion. Driven by his exacting nature, Cui-Baili oversaw with a heavy hand even the smallest of projects, and demanded perfection from those vassals appointed to fulfill his wishes. Yet for all the toil and sweat he expended on Tsin-Quinqan, doubt began to gnaw at Cui-Baili as old age crept ever closer. Even though the emperor was still robust and hale, the need for an heir became acute and his loneliness more insufferable as the solitude of his station bore down on him; yet, as it always seems with affairs of the heart, love came unexpectedly from the least likely of circumstances.

Once on a time, Cui-Baili, lost in thought and unmindful of naught but pressing affairs of state, was pacing the endless maze of gardens that surrounded his palace, as was his wont when he sought clear perspective. Suddenly, as if lost in a waking dream, his troubled mind was turned by a lilting voice raised melodiously in song, accompanied by the dulcet tones of a lute. Forsaking his imperial agenda, Cui-Baili was drawn as one sleepwalking to a bower with mossy flagstone steps and a trellised arbor overarching a marble bench where two musicians entertained a small gathering of courtiers and diplomats. These statesmen and seneschals were as equally enthralled as the emperor was by the young woman who sang an air supplied by an older gentleman who gently plucked the strings of his instrument. The maid's ethereal voice Cui-Baili likened to a nightingale's song, and he was struck to the heart by her fragile beauty, as delicate as the first blushing rose of spring.

Cui-Baili recognized the Lutenist as one of his court musicians, Ceol the Old, who had served the Imperial House since the time of his father; but the maiden he had never seen before. She noticed Cui-Baili gazing at her intently and meekly averted her eyes, yet her song did not falter. The alarmed courtiers became aware of the Emperor's presence as well, and in deference to their sovereign, they made way for him with awkward bows. But Cui-Baili had eyes only for the winsome songstress, and he stood entranced as long as the song continued. When the final, haunting note of the tune was carried off on the sussurant breezes, Cui-Baili at last stirred.

'Ceol, no words of praise have we that would do justice to thy ballad," Cui-Baili said with a smile, "and your apprentice has a gift for song unmatched in our realm. Long may she adorn our court!'

'You do me great honor, your majesty," the elderly musician replied as he strained to genuflect, "more so since my apprentice has found favor in your presence. For she is my granddaughter, Aislin, new come to your court this very springtide.'

Aislin curtsied low but dared not meet the emperor's eyes.

'And what brings thee to our court, Aislin?' Cui-Baili asked good-naturedly, in hopes that he would hear her voice once again, 'Surely thy parents had great difficulty in allowing a daughter with such graces out of their keeping?'

Aislin looked up at the emperor, but Cui-Baili was amazed to see mournful tears welling in her eyes. But she could not abide his countenance long, and she cast her sorrowful gaze downward and spoke not.

'Your majesty, please forgive my granddaughter, she means no disrespect,' Ceol answered in Aislin's stead. 'Her parents were killed in the time of the Troubles. Their village was razed by rebel troops, and she hid away in the forest, lest she be taken.'

Great remorse filled Cui-Baili and he looked down with pity on the orphaned maid. 'Forgive me, Aislin, I knew not…' he cried, suddenly unable to complete his thoughts.

There were whispers and mutterings among the courtiers who still stood behind Cui-Baili, a murmur of shock that the emperor would ask forgiveness from a mere peasant girl. With an angry wave of his hand, Cui-Baili dispatched his thoughtless vassals, who scurried from his presence like scolded dogs. Left alone then with Ceol and Aislin, the emperor took the distraught maiden gently by the hand and guided her to the bench.

'Aislin, you may stay in our house with Ceol your grandsire for as long as you wish,' Cui-Baili said, tenderly wiping a tear from her cheek. 'No claim do I make of thee for this boon, save that I ask thee to come to this bower every day at this very time and sing for me as you have done today.'

Aislin looked up through tears at Cui-Baili and kissed his hand in gratitude. 'Thank you, your majesty,' Aislin answered with a gentle smile, 'I pray that I shall always please your majesty thus, for as long as he so wishes it of me.'

Cui-Baili smiled in return and left them there, but he did so with great difficulty, and as the day drew on his thoughts strayed from matters of empire to reveries of Aislin; and even in fitful slumber his repose was haunted by the maid's mellifluous voice, coloring his dreams with her vibrant song.

Every afternoon at the appointed time, Aislin would meet the emperor beneath the garden bower and sing songs for him of ancient wonder, delicate traceries of words woven into exquisite visions that danced tangibly before Cui-Baili's eyes, freeing his mind from a drab, self-imposed prison of statecraft to trod unencumbered in sun-dappled forests of yore, lush and ever green. And as the long, hazy days of summer mounted, Aislin, the demure beauty with a gentle smile and shy laughter, at last healed the blight of mistrust within Cui-Baili's bitter heart, and eased him of the great burdens he had carried for so long in solitude. She asked nothing of him, nor expected anything -- this the emperor knew -- but her every wish would be granted ten-fold if only she were to mention them.

As word of the emperor's daily trysts with Aislin became known throughout court, even his most loyal vassals shook their heads in dismay at the unseemly affair. 'The emperor has become besotted or bewitched!' one would say, 'He's infatuated with this peasant girl!' another would reply. But as the gossips plied their tawdry trade, the news reached the ears of those opposed to the emperor and to his rule. It is said in those days Sauron was again marshalling his forces in the East, and that a strong sovereign the likes of Cui-Baili ruling such a vast empire was an impediment to the Dark Lord's ambitions. Spies were sent from Mordor to Tsin-Quinqan, and devious emissaries parlayed with nobles of the exiled Houses, promising aid and mercenary support should the banished lords seek to depose Cui-Baili. Even Banrion, mad and captive as she was, received illicit information through a network of informers and traitors handsomely bribed from the limitless coffers of Sauron; and with a cunning that would make the Dark Lord himself blush, the empress kept an ongoing correspondence with her co-conspirators under the very noses of the imperial wardens charged with guarding her.

But whether Cui-Baili knew or cared about the dissent that surrounded him at court, or of the renewed plots that swirled about the marches of his realm, he did not show it. A zest for life had returned to him, and he laughed aloud and jested in a manner unseen since the springtime of his rule. He wished in his heart of hearts to lay down the yoke of empire and relinquish the trappings of his lofty throne, so long a hindrance to his happiness. He yearned for a simpler life, one in which he could steal away with Aislin to the frontiers of his realm, or beyond, where no one had ever heard of Cui-Baili or the House of Chullain. But he waylaid such selfish thoughts; for so too did he love his people and the land of his great forefathers, who had bled and died so that Tsin-Quinqan would be the marvel of the Eastern World. There was too much dignity in Cui-Baili to surrender his rule to lesser men and to the chaos that by foresight he knew would ensue without the peace and stability his line offered.

His line! That fragile thread that threatened to snap should his days end prematurely. Yet Aislin was a beauty in her prime, and Cui-Baili still a man to be reckoned with. He would not wait for mean dotage to sap his strength and leave a son unprotected against the ravening wolves who would surely surround his throne. And so, to the dismay of his aides and the scandal of his court, Cui-Baili caused Aislin and her grandfather, Ceol, to be moved into a splendid suite of rooms in the palace proper, where once the Empress Banrion and her handmaids whiled away the indolent hours wrapt in luxury.

But Ceol was a man of much experience, and knew that such favor shown to his granddaughter and himself would surely draw enemies against them; however, the old man acquiesced for the sake of Aislin, seeking to protect her if he could from the spiteful envy of the court. He sought out Cui-Baili in private audience, and bravely beseeched the emperor to make an end of this charade.

'Begging your pardon, your majesty, but mark my words: no good shall come of this infatuation; it is ill fated,' Ceol stated bluntly, less as a servant to a master, and more as a paternal guardian to a suitor. 'This will be the doom of my granddaughter, and, by the evil whispers throughout court, it does not bode well for thee either, milord.'

Cui-Baili listened gravely to Ceol, overlooking the old man's apparent breach of etiquette and treating his opinion with a respect usually accorded to foreign dignitaries and potentates. Upon reflection, the emperor answered, 'Ceol, not lightly have I entered into this covenant, for it is with a solemn vow that I forswear my intentions for Aislin. My love for your granddaughter is no flirtatious lark. I would have her with me for the rest of my days if the fates allow.'

Seeing that Ceol remained unconvinced, Cui-Baili added, 'But I shall offer Aislin a choice: that she may leave court forthwith with my blessing and aid, or stay here in the palace as my consort. You, Ceol, shall bring this offer to Aislin alone, so that she may make her decision without undue influence or constraint."

Ceol blanched and hung his head. 'No such offer need be made to my granddaughter,' the old man sighed with resignation, 'for I know what her answer would be: that is, to remain here with you, your majesty. She, in truth, has made known her love for thee. As I cannot prevent this doom, I shall speak no more on it.'

And thus, Aislin remained at the emperor's side through the mounting storm of malcontent that darkened the winter of Cui-Baili's reign. But for a time there was great happiness within Cui-Baili's palace, and the love Cui-Baili held for Aislin, and she in return, became the stuff of legend: bards and minstrels would retell the tale of a pretty peasant girl whose wondrous song softened an emperor's heart of stone; moreover, the gentle Aislin moved many of Cui-Baili's cynical vassals to reverence by her calm demeanor and the fairness with which she dealt with any and all of the emperor's subjects. She interceded with the emperor for causes she felt were just, and staid his hand from harsh judgment when he was angered. Cui-Baili himself ruled with renewed vigor, acting not as a daunting taskmaster as he had for so many years, but as a lawgiver and a prodigious architect of public works. Yet when it was announced that the Consort Aislin was with child, the tidings were not met in all places with the joy due such a blessed event. Vile plots long incubating in the shadows began their insidious creep towards a bitter harvest, as neither the exiled lords, Empress Banrion, nor Sauron the Great wished to see the continuance of Cui-Baili's line.

Another rebel army was raised to the south, this one teeming with mercenary hosts contracted by Sauron's emissaries, but led ostensibly by the banished nobles (the Dark Lord's intentions remained cloaked in the matter, lest another alliance such as the one that defeated the Balchoth be arrayed against him). Ever valiant in times of crisis, Cui-Baili prepared to set off immediately with his legions to quell the insurrection; but Aislin pleaded with him to stay, for her heart was full of misgivings as the birth of their child was drawing nigh.

'I beg thee, my lord, ride not forth into battle,' Aislin stated sadly and with uncharacteristic candor. 'Are there not generals enough in your armies to bring a victory home to thee? Cannot one be found to lead in your stead?'

Cui-Baili smiled and embraced Aislin. 'The generals of my legions are brave and have served me these long years with distinction. Anyone of them could lead were I to order them; however, this is no desperate rabble revolting against injustice and want of bread. The rebellion that now brews on our marches threatens the very throne itself, and requires that I, the living symbol of the empire, must face my foes. To allow another to lead in my stead would send a message that perhaps I have become enfeebled and no longer capable of maintaining the rule of Tsin-Quinqan.'

Aislin buried her head against Cui-Baili's chest and sobbed, 'Forgive me, my love and my lord, I am merely being selfish!'

Cui-Baili gently pulled Aislin from him and gazed into her teary eyes. 'My dear Aislin, selfish?' he said with wonder. 'She that has never asked for anything? She that puts the needs of her emperor and his realm first before all other considerations? Whatever do you mean, my love?'

'I am selfish because I fear that if you do not return, my child and I shall be lost. Without you by my side your enemies shall kill our child…shall kill…'

Tears filled Cui-Baili's eyes and he held Aislin once more. 'I shall return, my love. I shall always be there to protect thee, and we shall live to see our son ready to rule our empire. This I vow to thee!'

Knowing that Cui-Baili would not be gainsaid from the undertaking, no matter the fears that whelmed within her, Aislin acquiesced with a quiet resolve and hope, and bade farewell to her emperor from the balcony of her royal suite, which overlooked the garden bower wherein they first chanced to meet.

Cui-Baili, even in his later years, proved a fierce combatant on the battlefield. Astride his great war stallion, the emperor swept the field before him, and not even the crack mercenary divisions that Sauron had set against him would suffer to stand before Cui-Baili's streaming banners. Yet perhaps it was Sauron's hidden influence amongst this force of hired killers that caused them to fold but not break rank -- to form orderly retreats but not flee helter-skelter -- and thus, they would reform lines and attack anew on another day. For Cui-Baili, who had never before known defeat but only ultimate victory, this strategy of the enemy baffled him. Knowing they had not the force to defeat his legions, Cui-Baili sensed that there were ulterior motives at work within the rebel armies, but whatever the strategy was, it proved as elusive as the decisive engagement Cui-Baili sought; for the confederates still desperately engaged the imperial legions' relentless attacks as weeks and weeks of skirmishes and defensive feints piled one on the other.

The joyous news at last came from the palace that the Imperial Consort, Aislin, had indeed borne Cui-Baili a son and heir. Although the emperor was filled with happiness, the thought of Aislin and his son alone while he trudged along the endless campaign trail filled him with a trepidation he had never before experienced. He yearned to return to his life and love at court, but this messy business with the shiftless rebels had to be finished once and for all. With this in mind, and knowing that rebel spies were all about and had more than likely infiltrated his camp, Cui-Baili withdrew the greater portion of his cavalry, feigning that he was returning to court to visit his consort and newborn son.

The gambit worked to perfection, for undoubtedly the enemy spies had indeed witnessed Cui-Baili's abandonment of his infantry, leaving them prone to attack without the inestimable aid of Tsin-Quinqan's legendary horse brigades. The spies' report, having its desired effect, stirred the enemy camp into furious action. Within two days, the rebels had taken the field and were advancing on the imperial positions with great haste. A ferocious pitched battle was fought, and the rebel generals, leaving nothing to chance, threw the last of their reserves into the fray to assure the utter destruction of Tsin-Quinqan's armies. As the evening of the third day drew near, the deluged imperial foot soldiers grew weary and began to falter, and the exalted rebels began to overrun their lines. But the rebel cries of certain victory were strangled in their throats, and the great expectations of wanton slaughter, piles of booty and rich ransoms turned to dismay and confusion; for the horns of their destruction sounded in the distance.

In a feat of military genius and endurance, Cui-Baili had, in three day's time, driven his cavalry nearly thirty leagues north, then west, then south, coming up at last from behind the rebel positions. The reappearance of Tsin-Quinqan's cavalry had a devastating effect on the rebel forces, as they were caught between the light brigades and Cui-Baili's rejuvenated infantry, who repulsed the confederates from their embattled lines with a burst of renewed ardor. This time, there was no orderly retreat by the overwhelmed mercenaries; having lost hope of carrying off the spoils of war, they instead chose to save their own skins, and fled en masse before the terrible swords of Cui-Baili. With the enemy in a complete rout, Cui-Baili at last surrendered leadership of his legions to one of his generals, and flew with all haste to be at Aislin's side. His heart burst with pride at the thought of a healthy heir being sung to sleep by his ladylove.

But the dread that had haunted Cui-Baili during the campaign became more pronounced as he drew nearer the palace. No dispatches had he received for several days from court, nor did those riders he had sent before him return. When he at last arrived, ominous black banners draped the facades of his palace, and his vassals bowed somberly in his presence.

'What goes on here?' Cui-Baili demanded of his servants. 'What fell circumstance has caused thee to caparison our house thus?'

One of the seneschals looked up with dismay at the emperor. 'Then…then you have not heard, your Majesty?' he stuttered with fear. 'Messages we have sent…riders…dire dispatches these last three days…'

A sinking feeling wracked the pit of Cui-Baili's stomach and his heart misgave him. Unwilling to hear more, he raced into the palace and directly to Aislin's suite. His pulse quickened as a great crowd of servants, healers and aides milled about in the corridor before Aislin's chambers. On a bier in the hall lay the lifeless form of Ceol the Old, bandages stained black with old blood covering a livid gash on his throat. Ignoring all else, Cui-Baili passed through the door. There, surrounded by healers, leaches and loremasters was Aislin, seemingly asleep in her feather bed, the sheer silken curtains of the overhanging canopy swaying spectrally from a faint breeze insinuating from an opened balcony door. Cui-Baili quietly ordered the men of science to leave the room, and he kneeled at Aislin's side. Her face was ashen white, a ghostly apparition that would haunt Cui-Baili's dreams from that day forward. As if she sensed the emperor's presence, Aislin opened her eyes, but there was no smile to greet her victorious lord.

'I have long awaited your return, my love,' she whispered, weakly grasping Cui-Baili's hand, 'but naught have I to offer thee in welcome.'

In horror, Cui-Baili suddenly realized that no cradle stood by Aislin's bed. He held her hand more firmly and gazed with wild confusion into her eyes. A single tear rolled down Aislin's cheek and she looked away from Cui-Baili. 'Our son is gone,' she gasped, barely able to speak from sorrow, 'he has been taken.' But Aislin spoke no more, as a sleep of blessed forgetfulness washed over her pain-wracked body.

The days that passed after Cui-Baili's return were ones of great turmoil and sadness. The emperor discovered that traitors within his own retinue had allowed evil men to enter the palace. They ruthlessly slew Ceol, who vainly attempted to protect his granddaughter, and gravely wounded Aislin, even as she clutched her infant son in her arms. Then the infiltrators brazenly stole the child from Aislin's desperate grasp, and left her there weeping, lying in a pool of her own blood. Cui-Baili, filled with remorse at having left Aislin alone these many weeks, never rose from her bedside; and though his loremasters attended his consort with the utmost gravity and expertise, tending her wound with great skill, still Aislin slipped further and further from the waking world, for there are some hurts that medicine cannot heal.

Late one evening while Cui-Baili kept his lonely vigil, Aislin again opened her eyes. With a steady gaze upon the grieving Cui-Baili she murmured, 'Forgive me, my love, I tried…' and then she fell silent. From the bower below the balcony he heard a nightingale's delicate trill in the gathering darkness, and Cui-Baili knew that Aislin was no more. The disconsolate emperor gently kissed Aislin and held her hand through the long night. When he at last emerged from her chamber, Cui-Baili appeared gray and feeble, seemingly aged many years in a single night. For countless hours every day he would sit silently upon his throne, lost in a reverie of sorrow, and none of his servants would dare disturb him.

No letter of ransom did the emperor receive for his stolen child, but none was truly needed. Cui-Baili knew well that he would never see his son alive again, but he was certain the devious kidnappers would keep their stony silence; thus, with the status of his son remaining a constant unknown, the faint hope of his heir's return would be forever dangled before him. Cui-Baili at last realized the vain folly of his actions: the rebellion was a sham, a pretext to separate the emperor from his consort for an extended length of time; the rebel army's series of retreats and limited engagements merely strung Cui-Baili along just enough for his enemies' plot to reach fruition; and Cui-Baili's supposed brilliant strategy was used against him, as if his adversary knew all along he would never desert his troops. But there were none of the exiled nobles who ever exhibited such an uncanny shrewdness to lead Cui-Baili so far astray, nor one blessed with the singular vision and iron will to offer up an entire army to utter defeat in order to achieve an ultimate victory. With a shock of recognition only profound soul-searching could reveal, Cui-Baili suddenly concluded who in fact was his one, true enemy: Sauron the Great. And the emperor laughed bitterly as one who was fey, and reason left him.

Cui-Baili spent the remainder of his days engrossed in the planning of a great Sepulchre in honor of Aislin -- a shrine for his lost love. Sparing no expense and with a single-minded effort that tore the veil between genius and madness, he caused a lush valley surrounded by verdant hills to be flooded with water from a river diverted specifically for the monumental project, and in the midst of this man-made lake he commanded to be built a palatial tomb of black and white stone towering heavenward, and around its gleaming walls gardens and groves not unlike those that graced the environs of his court. No amount of earnest pleas from his closest and most trusted aides could dissuade Cui-Baili from his relentless task, nor did the threat of a renewed rebellion cause him to act in defense of his realm. He ate and drank little, and slept not at all, until those that had known him in his greatness beheld now a mere shadow of the singular man who once ruled the most splendid empire in the East.

When the final -- and perhaps for posterity, the greatest -- achievement of his reign was completed, Cui-Baili surrendered up his spirit as one who had consumed what energy remained in his mortal frame; and thus utterly spent, he laid himself down in the confines of the magnificent Sepulchre. About him, his loyal and grief-stricken subjects erected a black marble vault, and upon a gold sarcophagus his noble likeness was intricately carved and placed reverently atop the imposing structure. But even in death Cui-Baili and Aislin could not evade tragedy and loss, for Cui-Baili's vassals immediately fell to bickering after his funeral, and shamelessly Aislin's body was not entombed alongside the emperor, as was his final wish. It is believed that the vindictive Empress Banrion, released from confinement after her estranged husband's death, caused Aislin's remains to be spirited away, and unceremoniously dumped into an unmarked grave -- the final act of vengeance of a woman scorned.

The long-banished lords returned from exile as well, and allying with the mad Banrion, seized control of Tsin-Quinqan; but such was the mistrust between the deceitful and conniving confederates that none among them was able to garner enough support to be chosen emperor; and the same could be said of Banrion, who, although still wielding considerable influence, was considered too reckless and unstable to maintain the throne. Instead, the lords and the aged empress settled on the mediocre bastard of Baolach's line, stuttering Baois. Pulled blinking and speechless into the sunlight from the imperial stables -- where he had spent most of his mundane life as a humble groomsman -- Baois was immediately thrust upon a precarious throne and invested with the ill-fitting robes of emperor. Pliable and utterly incapable of rule, Baois meekly fell under the control of one faction, then other, as he blithely oversaw the wholesale destruction and eventual partitioning of Tsin-Quinqan. No one took notice, or cared particularly, when he at last died, an oblivious old man held as a virtual prisoner in his own crumbling palace.


	20. Chapter 20

**CHAPTER XX: **_**Flight into the Desert**_

"Civil wars ripped Tsin-Quinqan to shreds," Greagoir mused indignantly, "and step by bloody step it was shattered into a mosaic of petty-princedoms and khanates -- fractious fractions of the five realms the empire originally encompassed. Only the newly-risen city-state of Bajazet maintained with any constancy an effective and long-lived rule, but even the Hierophants of that desert land wielded power more through influence than acreage."

With a certainty that only comes with years of familiarity, Tatya knew his master had finished his recitation, and so the young apprentice quickly scanned what he had written with the efficiency of one already well versed in the scrivener's trade. The sad epic was disquieting, and the plight of poor Aislin bothered him most of all. She was an innocent drawn inexorably from one tragedy to the next by powers beyond her control. He had little sympathy for Cui-Baili, save that he lost his only son, another innocent victim of the wicked world.

"Cui-Baili's son," Tatya blurted as he considered the mysterious kidnapping, "was he ever found?"

Greagoir shook his head. "In the intervening years between Cui-Baili's passing and the dismemberment of Tsin-Quinqan, there were a few instances of unscrupulous lords intent on usurping the imperial crown, who would miraculously produce a claimant to the throne. A boy or young man would be brought forth who perhaps bore a striking resemblance to the emperor and was of the requisite age; but ever were these princelings found to be frauds -- merely ill fated peasant boys or deluded stable hands -- naïve pawns who eventually followed their greedy mentors to the executioner's block. Nay, Tatya, Cui-Baili's infant heir was most certainly murdered within hours of his abduction. The kidnapping served only one purpose: to destroy Cui-Baili and his line in one savage swipe. Horribly cruel, but shrewdly efficient: as were all of Sauron's more successful gambits."

Tatya frowned at Greagoir's apparent admiration of incarnate evil. The apprentice disliked the cynical aspects of the master's nature, wrought through years of deceitful diplomacy. "And what of the realm of Geas-Geata?" he asked, gently broaching a subject nearer to Greagoir's troubled heart.

"Hmmm? What? Geas-Geata?" Greagoir croaked as if the question disturbed his thoughts. "It shares literally nothing geographically with the great Khanate of Geata of the Second Age, if that's what you mean; in fact, it is roughly within the boundaries of what was once Tsin, only smaller. The only similarity that Geas-Geata shares with its namesake is that the ruling family claimed descent from the line of Baothan through some convoluted genealogy that borders on pure fantasy. Why one would wish to be associated with that line of murderers, thieves and incompetents baffles me in the first place, and in the second, the magical leaps chroniclers took to connect the dots over thousands of years is more farcical than logical. One might as well claim descent from Elrond and call himself a Half-Elf!"

Tatya had no idea who this Elrond person was, but he pretended to be enthused. "So…Princess Leannan is a descendant of Cui-Baili's enemies?"

Greagoir grabbed a tuft of his beard and began chewing on it in exasperation; then, as if he had to restrain every tensing fiber of his being from exploding, he said very slowly, through gritted teeth, "Tatya, is there anything I have said within the last few moments which you actually paid attention to?"

Tatya opened his mouth to reply, but thought better of it. This type of question was fraught with pitfalls, as there was no good answer (for he obviously hadn't been paying attention). In a valiant effort to extricate himself, Tatya said the unexpected, "Forgive me, master, I merely wished to hear more of Princess Leannan."

Greagoir's mood softened considerably, and Tatya breathed a sigh of relief. "It is said that curiosity killed the cat," Greagoir sighed, "but in this case, your questions shall be the death of an old Tom."

Greagoir fidgeted uneasily, but plodded ahead nonetheless:

"As the bleak half-light of dawn mingled with the shadows of my cell, Princess Leannan bade me a farewell for the last time; for certainly it seemed that way at the time: I was being dragged off a slave by my mortal enemy, and against her will Leannan was to wed an addled fop on the orders of her arch-nemesis. And although the situation seemed desperate, Leannan's words of encouragement (coupled with a sublime parting kiss, moistened with salty tears) buoyed my spirit for whatever trials would befall me.

With a punctuality that could only mark the moment of an impending dread's arrival, Marfach-Suil appeared precisely at the appointed time, and I was hauled enchained from the dungeon. As I stumbled out into the courtyard, I searched in vain up at the windows and porticos of the palace, striving for one, last fleeting glimpse of Leannan; but all was dark and desolate. Marfach-Suil eyed my discomfort with glee and tugged my chain so hard that I nearly fell.

'No Dark Elves to save you now, scribe,' he taunted me with relish, 'you are mine!'

A noose was placed firmly around my neck and I was tethered to one of the pack animals. Marfach and his tribal henchmen mounted their desert ponies and cantered off at a brisk clip, leaving me no alternative but to jog after them or be forcibly dragged if I slowed my gait. Behind me, I could only snatch short glances of the imposing walls of the palace, but there was no movement upon the parapets, and it eventually faded from view. After a few miles, and when my limits of bodily exertion had been nearly reached, Marfach-Suil dismounted and appraised my condition, much like he would a valuable beast being sent to the market for slaughter.

'We are far enough from palace to rest, I think,' he thought aloud. 'No more prying eyes to hound us.' He then glared at me with those beastly amber eyes and growled, 'But we must not slay you yet, scribe. Mharu-muc, he worry that p'raps your master, the pirate Kiryatin, would suffer insult if his servant is killed within Geas-Geata. Mharu-muc wants no trouble before wedding of princess.'

I wondered how much gold the obese eunuch had lavished on Marfach to make him withhold the revenge he so obviously hungered for. It then came to my mind that perhaps the greedy Marfach was so corrupt that he might forego his vengeance altogether if the price were right. After all, this was a man who would sell himself if he could gain a tidy profit.

With nothing to lose, I ventured to test my theory: 'Yes, Kiryatin would surely attack Geas-Geata if I were murdered here. The information I hold is worth a fortune to the corsair. He seeks for it at any price.'

I then handed him the great black pearl Leannan had given me.

Marfach's hooded yellow eyes grew wide in wonder and glinted in the sunlight. He turned as if to leave, his eyes still trained on the magnificent pearl; but then he glanced back with a calculating look that deceitful men get when they are attempting to be shrewd. 'At any price, eh?' he said with a knowing smirk and then he quickly pocketed the treasure before his men caught sight of it.

By the next day we had left the Khanate of Geas-Geata proper, heading ever westward toward the great desert, which was still a journey of several weeks. Surprisingly, or perhaps not so, the murderer's blade remained sheathed, and the tender cords of my throat remained intact. Huddled about their campfire that night, Marfach-Suil and his tribesmen debated long into the darkness; but I, unfortunately, was tied to a tree and out of earshot of their discussion (Marfach had at least remembered that I could translate his guttural speech). Come the morning, Marfach-Suil kicked me awake and knelt close to me. The man still stank of fetid peas.

'We keep you alive, for now,' he hissed in my ear, the stench of his rotten teeth almost unbearable, 'but only till I see how much you fetch in ransom.'

The weeks that groaned ahead of me were ones of relentless hardship. I walked as if one lost in an unending nightmare, trudging painfully for mile after bitter mile with only water and some stale crusts of bread to sustain me. If I were to be sent back to Kiryatin alive (which seemed highly implausible) I did not relish the condition I would be left in. Time passed slowly -- achingly so -- but eventually woodlands and hills gave way to flat expanses of grassy prairies which finally turned a parched brown, arid and inhospitable. The wind became dry and the ground betrayed patches of sand beneath the pale roots of straw-like grass that clung tenaciously to what remained of the eroding soil. Before us lay the forbidding Roaring Waste, a trackless desert of sunburnt dunes and rock formations carved into tortured sculptures -- minarets, marred cenotaphs and massive honeycombed hives -- eaten away over time by the ravaging bite of the caustic wind.

But even these sere, seemingly dead lands retained an unexpected vitality hidden during the high heat of the day: roving tribes of nomads made their homes there, eking out their meager existence, continually warring with their neighbors for control of oases; merchant caravans made there way tenuously through the desert, the shortest east-west route between _Altan dul Anoir_, the great mountain pass of the Orocarnis, and the thriving and luxury-laden Gold Coast (otherwise, one must pass hundreds of miles south to Hildorien, then east, and then north in a vast semi-circle to reach their goal); and then, of course, there was the city-state of Bajazet, perched like a fabulous mirage on a promontory of rock jutting from the desert waste. Bajazet, made enormously wealthy by the caravan trade, slavery and the natural defenses of its position -- for the desert itself was the main deterrent for an invading army -- this was to be our destination.

Before we entered the desert, another debate arose among Marfach-Suil's men, this one heated and full of insult and anger; and I caught the general drift of their conversation as they spat and cursed at one another in their horrid tongue. It seemed the easiest way to reach Bajazet was to take the well-trodden caravan route directly to the city; however, some of the tribesmen expressed dire concerns for their very lives, wanting nothing to do with the armed patrols from Bajazet that regularly scoured the route with ruthless efficiency, ensuring the safety of the caravans that were the life's blood of the city (the tribesmen -- murderers and thieves to a man -- were obviously all wanted in Bajazet for one crime or another). The rest of Marfach's men seemed to fear the alternative more than dodging the zealous patrols, and that was to risk journeying in the open desert. Some nameless fear crouched in the shadows of the dunes, stalking the sands for unwary prey blinded by sun and the relentless wind.

Marfach-Suil remained aloof to the argument. I watched him intently as he scanned the limitless sands, seemingly ignoring his fellow tribesmen's turmoil. I was certain then he had made up his mind, and his actions did not disappoint me. Snarling like some feral animal, Marfach silenced his men and began bellowing orders. We were to head into the open desert and bypass the trade route. I smiled inwardly at Marfach's choice and understood his reasoning, which seemed painfully obvious too anyone with common sense (which unfortunately precluded Marfach's men): visions of untold wealth swam in Marfach's head, and his greedy nature had now consumed him utterly. He would in no way risk the prospect of losing me to the patrols. He had lost one fortune on the high plains of Hildorien; he would not lose another here.

With his men still grumbling beneath their breath, and making the sign against the evil eye (perhaps as a preventative measure for whatever evil lurked out in the Roaring Waste), Marfach led his troop in a northwesterly direction into the all-consuming desert. They made their way slowly about the dunes, which suited me fine, as I could not long endure a torrid pace in that sweltering inferno. The first day of the journey was uneventful. There was the sun above and sand below, two plains of intense heat separated by an oppressive, ever-present wind Marfach's men named a _sirocco_, which parched rather than refreshed, and stung like needles when it gusted. Sand capered and danced in the sirocco, swirling in small vortexes like the waterspouts I had witnessed ever and anon in the Straits of Enegaer. The persistent drone of the winds, which gave the Roaring Waste its name, howled and sighed, bellowed and whined, and was the only sound that could be discerned in this miserable and moribund desert.

The night proved remarkably cold, for without the sun to heat the sand, the dunes quickly surrendered whatever warmth they retained and became frigid. Marfach's tribesmen maintained a small cook-fire that proved woefully inadequate against the chill, and the entire camp quickly fell into bundled lethargy hard-by a sheltering dune, seeking to escape the bitter bite of the sirocco. I laid awake for hours, unable to sleep even though I was exhausted. Sleep at last did take me, but it was a restless slumber full of tossing and turnings. When the morning came, I was abruptly rousted and drowsily endured another dreary forced march.

How many miles we had passed into the Roaring Waste, I could not say; there was nothing to mark the distance -- no change in terrain, no landmarks -- only the burning blue sky and the simmering sand. By early evening we had come at last to guideposts of some significance to Marfach and his men. In the shimmering heat to the southwest rose a series of wind-shorn columns of stratified rock and beyond a series of low-lying hills made of the same dark, layered stone. For the first time our journey turned more southerly, as Marfach-Suil headed straight for the formation. Obviously eager to reach the hills before nightfall, the troops' pace quickened, and I was dragged along, reeling from heat and thirst. Thankfully, the last rush towards this goal had taken place late in the day, when the heat was not so unbearable and the sun had decided it had punished us enough for the time being.

But our arrival at these nameless hills did not relieve the sense of unease that permeated the band of shiftless tribesmen. Their eyes twitched about nervously and they spoke together in low whispers. For reasons beyond my comprehension they were scared witless. Even Marfach-Suil found his orders were being disobeyed, and he resorted to threats and drew his blade on one poor soul who had refused to take his appointed duties as sentry. The night passed much the same as the night previous, with my listless mind refusing to abandon itself to sleep. I had only just nodded off when I was startled awake by the confused cries of the sentry.

He came running and blubbering from the direction of the rock pillars, where the pack animals and ponies had been tethered. I gazed down from my perch in the hills and saw the animals were in a state of wild agitation as well, bucking and whinnying with great fear, although I could not see what caused the commotion. The sentry fell at Marfach-Suil's feet -- crying and huffing and sniffling -- all the while speaking in bursts of muffled gibberish while attempting to be understood buried in the folds of Marfach's robe. Marfach kicked the gibbering fool, but he, too, could make no sense of the man's babble. Grabbing his sword and barking orders to his men, Marfach led his troop hurriedly down the hill. Having been forgotten in the chaos, I considered escaping, but deemed the exercise to be futile (seeing as my hands were bound securely behind my back and I had no clear destination to run towards). So, with the confounded curiosity that has plagued me my entire life, I joined Marfach's men at the foot of the hill.

The grisly sight we came upon was one of unremitting horror: one of the ponies had been bitten completely in half; and even more troubling, the entire rear of the animal -- from its back haunches clear up to its crushed ribs -- was missing. I could not clearly translate the fearful mumblings of Marfach's men, but over and over I caught a term of dread punctuating their hissing whispers: _were-worm_. Suddenly it became clear to me the reason for their abject fear. Previously, I had thought the existence of were-worms to be mere fable, but it was obvious these venomous cousins of the Great Worms of the Orocarnis and the Withered Heath did indeed lurk in the sands of the Roaring Waste. The evidence was clear, and no creature I had ever witnessed could fit a horse into its gaping maw and snap it clear in two, but this behemoth had done so in relative silence and had left quickly with a sizable meal. Marfach-Suil spent little time considering his options. With grim determination he demanded his men drive the pack animals and ponies up into the hills for safekeeping. No one slept the remainder of that dreadful night, and before the first light of dawn, we were on our way again.

Driven by a sense of fear and urgency, Marfach abandoned his original plan and headed due south towards the caravan route. He was now concerned less about patrols from Bajazet, and more for sudden attacks by were-worms and the growing alienation of his own men; for among them angry grumbling had already begun. 'It is Marfach's greed that has led us to this turn!' one spat in his rough speech (though well out of earshot of his leader). 'Did I not say he was treacherous?' remarked another. 'Mark my words, we shall all die to meet his ends!' exclaimed a third. I merely smiled in satisfaction and with some relief, as I was no longer forced to march behind the troop. In his need for speed, Marfach had me now sitting atop one of the pack-mules. It was a rough, jostling ride, but far better than stumbling across the searing desert sand, in any event.

Marfach-Suil's frustration grew as the daylight hours faded. He wanted to continue the journey into the night, but the horses were limping and close to collapse from heat prostration. Yet there was no protection here in this part of the desert -- no hills to offer sanctuary -- and his men were growing more rebellious with each passing hour. One unsavory fellow, missing an eye and with a long, livid scar snaking down his swarthy face, actually called his leader out, and Marfach was obliged to reply. I supposed rightly that sorting out leadership in Marfach's tribe did not include a well-reasoned dialogue followed by a simple majority vote, for daggers were immediately drawn and Marfach and the one-eyed brigand began stalking each other within a tight circle of their cheering and jeering comrades. But Marfach-Suil was no man to be trifled with; I knew from my previous experience with him that he reveled in violence and murder. Within moments the fight was over, and Marfach's blade jutted obscenely out of his adversary's gullet.

But even as Marfach withdrew his dagger from the dead man, the ponies at the edge of camp began shrieking in terror. I had been sitting watching the duel, but managed to struggle to my feet at the first sign of danger. There among the pack animals a monstrous serpent, with a great hooded cowl bulging about its neck and maw drawn back in a horrific grin, reared high above the panicking ponies. The were-worm had a mottled pattern on its scales that mimicked the drab hues of sand and shade, rendering it near invisible in these desert environs -- only its eyes blazed red and incarnadine. The tribesmen scattered in every direction, and Marfach was unable to regain command of the frightened lot, cursing them as cowards and fools as he ran this way and that in an effort to make them stand and fight.

I stood there dumbly for a moment, amazed at the sheer size of the worm that even now was gorging unconcernedly on a pony, apparently oblivious to the furor surrounding him. Regaining my wits, I noticed the dagger of the man slain in the duel laying unclaimed next to his limp body. Dropping again to the ground, I fumbled clumsily with the blade behind my back and managed to cut my bonds. My mind raced in desperation as I turned to flee from the were-worm (even if it was busy with its dinner at the moment), but in my unwary haste I ran straight into Marfach-Suil with such force that he tumbled backwards onto the sand, and I fell hard on top of him. I pushed away from him quickly, expecting him to attack, but he did not rise. He gasped and sputtered and then fell silent. To my endless amazement, the dagger I had been carrying was somehow sticking from his belly. In the collision I had accidentally stabbed Marfach-Suil!

Not wishing to press my luck (nor congratulate myself overmuch on my battle prowess!), I scrambled up to leave, but a sudden thought stopped me. I bent over the lifeless man and rifled through his cloak until I found Leannan's black pearl; but as I rose to go, Marfach clutched my wrist with surprising strength, his ghastly amber eyes full of hate and anger.

'I…I will kill you!' he hissed.

'Yes, you just might,' I said with a fierce grin, 'but not today, you foul-smelling bastard!'

I forcibly wrenched my arm from his grasp, and hurried off into the gathering darkness. Fortune remained with me, as one of the equally fortunate stray ponies wandered aimlessly towards me (obviously as lost as I was). Knowing that the poor beast was exhausted, I did not mount him, but gently guided him by the reins as quickly as possible away from the embattled camp. Behind me I could hear the shrieks and screams of Marfach's tribesmen. It would seem the were-worm had polished off its main course and was now seeking an appetizer.

My relief at escaping both slavery and serpent was short-lived, however, as the enormity of my situation became evident. I was lost in the vastness of the Roaring Waste with only the vaguest notion of direction or destination. Knowing that Marfach-Suil had been seeking for less hostile regions to the south, I set my bearings by familiar constellations and headed on what I hoped was to be the proper course. But all the while my thoughts strayed to Leannan. She would have been married by now, but what mattered that if her love remained true to me? I vowed that whatever the dangers I must face, or however long the journey, I would return to her. I would steal her away, and together we would seek for the sheltering harbors of my island, Marannan-astair; or perhaps we would journey farther, leaving the East completely and arriving eventually at the white-towered citadel of Minas Tirith, where the wisdom of the ages lay.

I laughed to myself and shook my head. But first I must find my way out of this damned desert."


	21. Chapter 21

**CHAPTER XXI: **_**Out of the Fire and Into the Frying Pan**_

Having escaped the beleaguered camp of Marfach-Suil, I journeyed southward for nigh on three days and nights of horrendous heat and bitter cold. My only saving grace was that the pony I had rescued from the depredation of the were-worm carried among his saddlebags a half-empty water skin, which I shared judiciously with the beast; but even so, our meager mouthfuls ran dry by the second day. I was certain the murderous tribesmen I had rightly abandoned to the insatiable whims of the were-worm intended to head towards some hidden oasis to replenish their depleted water supply, but finding such a place in the howling desert without a map or guide proved illusory. Blinded by the biting winds, I was out of my ken and near the end of my strength; only the memories of the beautiful Leannan succored me. Even so, I collapsed at last, physically exhausted, with my mind enfeebled by a raging fever.

Through groggy stages of delirium, I returned to consciousness and found myself abed in the comfortable shade of a well-appointed tent. By the looks of the furnishings and wealthy trappings scattered about, I surmised the owner to be a well-to-do merchant. By the sheer dumb luck only accorded to the oblivious, I must have stumbled blindly upon the caravan route during the last torturous leg of my journey! I managed to rise from beneath the silk coverlet (even though my head was still swimming!) and walked shakily out into the blinding light of day. A paunchy fellow with pointy beard, flowing robe and odd headdress (which I learned was called a _turban_) eyed me curiously as I exited the tent. Putting away a slate board on which he was doing calculations with a piece of chalk, he rose with a smile to greet me.

'By the hoary head of the great were-worm, it is good to see thee up and about, young friend!' he said jovially. 'We had given you up for dead when first we found thee.'

I half-nodded, trying to at least look a bit appreciative; although my body refused to do my bidding.

'Ah, still a little out of sorts, eh?' the merchant laughed. 'But you have been through much, 'tis obvious.' He pointed over to a makeshift corral and added, 'It seems your pony fared much better than thee. After a bucket of oats and a cool drink, he has been acting quite amorous with one of my mares, the rascal!'

I saw the desert pony snorting and prancing about the enclosure, obviously quite pleased with himself. 'Damned horse!' I muttered irritably. Turning again to the merchant, I asked, 'Pardon me, kind sir, but how long has it been since I was found?'

'Ah, only two days,' the jolly merchant replied, 'but had you walked another twenty paces, you would have stumbled into the well of this oasis.'

I rolled my eyes at my unfortunate luck. 'I am in your debt, sir,' I replied with a more proper bow, 'I am Greagoir of Caladh, Envoy and Scribe to Attar Kiryatin, at your service.'

The merchant's eyes grew wide, and he bowed with hand to forehead in return. 'I am called Imrim ar-Cam, a lowly trader of Bajazet,' he said with false modesty (as it was obvious he was quite wealthy). 'The name of Kiryatin is known to us. He is spoken of with fear and respect in many ports on the Gold Coast.' Suddenly he looked at me slyly, as if sizing me up. 'When we found thee, I had surmised you were a man of means; even though your clothes were worn from a long journey in the desert, still they are finely tailored and of rich fabric.'

I grew wary of this Imrim ar-Cam, although I was uncertain as to why. Perhaps it was the way he took note of my clothing. If I had been dressed in rags, would he have treated me with the same distinction? I thought not.

Imrim in turn caught the subtle change in my expression (a mistake I would not make again), and quickly shifted the subject: 'What exactly brought thee out into the deep desert?' he asked with seeming unconcern. 'Strange it is that a corsair would send his envoy on an errand to Bajazet -- half a world away from the coast --and alone; stranger still that the envoy would stray from the safety of the caravan route.'

Expecting such a question, but not wishing to offer up too much information, I supplied a plausible half-truth: 'My company and I came from up north,' I replied; 'foolishly hoping to save time, we chose to cut through the open desert. 'Twas there we were set upon by a were-worm, and I alone escaped; or, at least, I believe that to be the case. As far as my errand, it is my own, and I prefer it to remain that way.'

Imrim ar-Cam smiled wryly and shrugged at my explanation as if he accepted the lie for what it was. 'Very well, young master, I am not surprised that one who is practiced in the diplomatic trade should hold his tongue among strangers. I would expect nothing less.'

At that moment, one of Imrim's guards, an immense, swarthy fellow with a formidable scimitar hanging from his wide, black belt, strode up to the merchant and whispered something in his ear. Imrim appeared keenly interested in the hulking guard's message. I, too, strained to hear the discussion as it evidently concerned me, for the guard rather stupidly kept looking in my direction. Imrim became perturbed at the guard's indiscretion and he irritably shooed him away as one would an annoying child.

But Imrim shrugged off the conversation blithely by saying, 'Ah, if it isn't one thing, it's another! So hard to find good help these days, wouldn't you agree?' When I nodded rather noncommittally, he added briskly, 'But come, young master, you must be famished! I have yet to break fast this morning, would you care to accompany me?'

Never one to turn down a meal, I nodded with much more certainty, and followed the merchant to an ornate canopy under which was laid a table arrayed with all sorts of fruits and cheeses and _kulcha, _a type of spiced, unleavened bread which was a staple in the desert areas of the East. We ate in silence, Imrim watching me with great interest, and I trying my best to retain the last vestiges of civility and not gorge myself like some drooling, half-starved beggar.

Imrim ar-Cam remained amused, almost delighted with my presence. 'It is not often my table is graced with such august company,' he said in what to me seemed a jesting manner. 'Conversation along the caravan route usually does not progress further than the proper mating techniques of camels, or the damnable weather, which is always hot. It is quite tedious, to be sure.'

I heartily agreed and we struck up a rather amiable conversation. Imrim ar-Cam fancied himself quite learned for one coming from such humble stock. He admitted to having in his possession a leather-bound set of the History of Bajazet in three volumes, and noted with obvious pride that he had actually read them through! I found his attempts at cultured dialogue amusing (his cobbled speech often lapsing from ceremonious 'thee' and 'thou' into informal 'you' and 'your'). Still, I was intrigued, and I fell to talking about the scrivener's trade and the writing of books and chronicles, which seemed to interest him greatly. But as I ate my fill I became more attuned to my surroundings, having at last overcome the nausea and vertigo that had plagued me upon waking. A series of tents (with Imrim's being the most sumptuous) made up the central camp, and in the distance beyond the tents were several covered wains, which were heavily guarded and…constructed like cells! To my dismay, I discerned men, crowded and pathetic-looking, imprisoned in these wheeled cages!

With that sinking feeling one gets when discovering one is in the wrong place at the wrong time, I politely wiped my mouth with a napkin while desperately looked for an avenue of escape. Imrim ar-Cam, whose steady gaze had never left me, smiled broadly, then laughed at my discomfiture.

'Ah, there you go again, Imrim!' the merchant said to himself, shaking his head but still laughing. 'One thought pushes out another, and you have failed to mention your line of work! A thousand pardons, young master, but I see by the distraught look on your face that you have already surmised my trade.'

I had carelessly failed to notice the guards who had surreptitiously came behind me, and even now flanked me on either side. I sighed in vexation. Placing my napkin on my lap, I ate another chunk of goat cheese and said, 'Well, Imrim, it would seem you have a captive audience, please continue.'

'Hmmm, now where was I? Ah yes, my trade!' Imrim smirked and folded his hands contentedly on his belly. 'When my guards found you, it seemed to me unlikely that one such as yourself -- no mere peasant or wandering tribesman by any means -- should be traveling about alone in the Roaring Waste. That being the case, I sent a few of my men out into the desert to search for any other of your misbegotten party that may have survived. They have just returned this morning with some…valuable information.'

I tried my best to seem unconcerned and took a mighty bite of a juicy peach, which tasted quite sweet, even if the circumstances had soured.

'Lo and behold!' Imrim continued, 'we came upon one of those vagrant nomads -- thieves and scoundrels, the lot of them -- baking out on the sands no more than a day's journey north of here. The poor wretch was in a terrible way, and it was a mercy that my men ended his suffering; but before he died the tribal son-of-a-cur told quite a tale. It would seem that you, Greagoir of Caladh, are political baggage. By all rights you should be dead by now, if it were not for the insufferable greed of that thug Marfach-Suil. Yes, Marfach is known to us, young master, and a most disagreeable sort he is, or was. I have made use of his detestable, but unfortunately necessary, services in the past. In any case, it would seem you have no diplomatic errands in Bajazet whatsoever; rather, you were a prisoner of Marfach and his band of cutthroats, who were hoping to hide out in the city and perhaps ransom you to Attar Kiryatin. The rope burns on your wrists, although healing quite nicely, seem to bear the truth of the tale.'

I involuntarily hid my hands under the table, but this only added to Imrim ar-Cam's mirth. With no further need of pretense, I replied, 'As you have found me out, what then, Imrim? I can make it worth your while if you set me free.'

The slave trader thought for a moment, then stated flatly: 'No, I think not. You see, I am not a very trusting sort, so the thought of letting you go in hopes of receiving some reward in the unforeseeable future does not make very good business sense; neither does attempting to ransom you to Attar Kiryatin. The miles are long, and…well…he is a pirate, after all. I do not believe we would come to an amicable agreement. It is more than likely he would not even reply to my demands.'

I could not argue with his logic, nor could I cloud Imrim ar-Cam's judgment with the lure of greed as I had done so easily with the inept Marfach Suil. I gazed again over at the prison-wains full of human chattel, and wondered when I was to join them.

The ever-perceptive Imrim rose and patted me on the back. 'There, there, young master, your fate is not bound with theirs,' he said reassuringly. 'Those poor souls are on their way to feed the gladiatorial pits of Bajazet. They are fodder for the games; whereas you are a more valuable commodity.'

Suddenly, the previous conversation I had with Imrim came to mind. The slaver's keen interest in the scrivener's trade was not merely one regarding the love of books; rather, he was seeking the measure of my talents as a scribe. I had foolishly boasted of my abilities, and unintentionally given the wily Imrim every possible assurance that I was a first-rate scholar and master-scribe. I was a prisoner of my own witless jabber!

Imrim ar-Cam smiled as he read the thoughts written in my expression. 'You are very learned, Greagoir, and quite talented to be sure; but you are still young and not very wise. But such a thing cannot be learned from books; experience alone teaches wisdom.'

The slave-trader nodded to his guards, and they rather indelicately placed manacles on my wrists and ankles. 'Let this then be a hard lesson on the path of wisdom, young scribe,' he said as he prepared to take his leave. 'Unfortunately for you, that path leads directly to the palace of the Hierophant of Bajazet. I have heard the Exalted One is in need of a master-scribe, and will pay handsomely for a slave of your caliber. It seems your predecessor incurred the Hierophant's royal wrath and was forced to drink his own ink! A horrible death, certainly, but a most apt means of execution, don't you think?'

Imrim ar-Cam laughed and walked off to attend to his business concerns, leaving me to be roughly handled by the merciless guards. If the Hierophant also treated his slaves in such a manner, he did not deserve to have any.


	22. Chapter 22

**CHAPTER XXII: **_**A Hierophantic History of Bajazet**_

Greagoir stroked his beard pensively and began to nod, but just as Tatya suspected his master would fall asleep, the master-scribe sat bolt upright as if struck with a sudden fright. Then he dazedly muttered, 'Ah, no rest for the wicked; we must not be waylaid by the petty charms of sleep. Tatya, let us forego this tale for the moment, I must recount the history of Bajazet. In the library there are three matching black leather volumes, very worn, and quite possibly with pages still grainy with sand. Go fetch them for me.'

Tatya scuttled off to the other room of the cottage and came back quickly with the dusty tomes, half expecting sand to pour out from between the bindings. These weather-beaten volumes, the apprentice was certain, were the very books Greagoir had mentioned as once being in the possession of Imrim ar-Cam. Tatya wondered how his master had managed to get these away from the slave-trader, but Tatya wondered about many things regarding his master. He shrugged and laid the books on the table beside Greagoir.

The old scribe heard the loud thump and motioned his apprentice to open the first of the books. The script that filled the pages was utterly foreign to Tatya, devoid of any of the ornamental illumination that was a source of pride among the calligraphers of Marannan-astair. Tatya became cross-eyed as he tried to decipher the writing, which seemed to be penned from right to left, rather than the standard left to right; but of course, these barbaric people could not be expected to behave conventionally, steeped as they were in lavish excess, brutality and the trafficking of slaves. Fortunately, Greagoir's translation filled the wide margins on either side of the alien script, and it was from these notes that the apprentice would be expected to compile the history of Bajazet in the common tongue.

Content that Tatya was earnestly attending to the translation, Greagoir's weariness at last overtook him and he dozed soundly. Tatya, used as he was to the master's periodic slumbers, ignored the inevitable and began transcribing Greagoir's notes verbatim from the original:

'_By the grace of His most regal and terrible Majesty, Ardsagart IV, Emperor of the North, Hetman of the Twelve Tribes, Lord Protector of the Golden Way, and fourteenth Hierophant of the Fifth Dynasty of Bajazet -- for whom a great-tailed star bathed the heavens in fiery light to proclaim his royal birth -- I, Nath Scriobalai, Palace Notary and Chronicler, with praises for the munificent patronage of so enlightened a sovereign, from whose beneficent wisdom all blessings flow, and under whose venerable auspices such scholarly work as this ambitious offering is graciously allowed fulfillment, do hereby offer up the great histories of Bajazet the Eternal and of the illustrious line of Hierophants whose rule has brought unto the realm untold wealth, and protected we, their loyal subjects, from the desolation of the great were-worms; may it be so always and forever.'_

Tatya rolled his eyes and wrinkled his nose in disgust. What a windbag! If Nath the Notary's entire chronicle was as verbose as his first overwrought sentence, then transcribing the wordy mess would be literally interminable. And three rambling volumes? That would take months and months! Tatya was always one for conciseness (even trimming Greagoir's longer-winded diatribes in the interest of readability and sanity), and if ever there was a work in need of an edit, this blathering ballad of Bajazet was sorely wanting. Tatya scanned the tome, marking paragraphs of interest (which was difficult, considering one had to wade through a sea of words to get to the pearls). One entry caught his eye:

'_After the ignoble downfall of the once-great Emperors of Tsin-Quinqan, there came the Dark Days of lawlessness and brigandage. The East was torn by wars of succession, and tumult and rebellion was rife. Mercenary companies, either forced into joblessness by truces that momentarily held a fragile peace, or having decided that free-lancing was more lucrative than jumping back-and-forth to whichever of the vying lords offered the highest reward, roved the caravan routes and took what they would, so that merchants were loathe to travel, lest they be robbed and murdered most cruelly. And such was the turmoil of the time that merchants would band together and hire one such Free Company to defend themselves from the violence of another; so that in one trip a caravan might be set upon by a Free Company that had acted as their guards only months earlier._

_Into this chaos there came to Bajazet an ambassador from the Lord Sauron the Great, followed by a courtly retinue bearing gifts and offers of friendship. Seeing the plight of the city and the misery of its people, this vassal of Mordor, who appeared both wise and noble, took pity on Bajazet. With fair-seeming words and lavish promises, the emissary did lull the anxious civic leaders into an alliance. For the use of the caravan routes and a base from which his armies might arrive and depart from Mordor, the Lord Sauron promised to rid Bajazet of the mercenary menace and free the city from the avaricious grasp of the decadent lords of the East. At first the covenant with Mordor seemed as good as the gracious words written in the treaty: the emissary returned with a great force and scattered the Free Companies; further, they conquered much of what was once Tsin-Quinqan, so that never again was Bajazet considered a province of the feuding lords along the Gold Coast; finally, Mordor's overwhelming victories brought a wealth of traffic along the caravan routes, and a great influx of slaves and booty enriched Bajazet; but, as the old saying among the slave traders goes, 'all gifts come with a hidden price.' _

_With much of the East now under Mordor's subjugation, and no further need of such a vast military presence, it was thought that Lord Sauron's armies would move on as well, seeing as Bajazet had billeted his legions at their own expense for quite some time, and the cost had become exorbitant. Having acted in good faith and certain the terms of the treaty had been fulfilled, a delegation of Bajazet's foremost citizens met with Sauron's emissary to voice their concerns. But the once kindly and sage ambassador of Mordor laughed cruelly and mocked the leaders of the city._

'_Beg and scrape, fools, it shall do you no good,' the emissary of Mordor spat haughtily. 'Sauron the Great has given you everything you asked for and more. You pleaded for security, and behold! The mercenary bands have been swept from the caravan routes. Without a second thought for your betrayal, you rejoiced when Mordor conquered the warring Khans to the east, and you greedily gorged on the contents of their vast treasuries, confiscated as the wages of war. You are naught but whores of the desert, and as such you shall do as you are told for the pleasure of Mordor. Now be gone, before Lord Sauron chooses to sack Bajazet and level it with fire and the sword!'_

_And thus began the long captivity of Bajazet. For one-thousand years, with varying degrees of severity and control, Sauron held the city enthralled. At first Bajazet was ruled by the edicts of various military governors, and the city became the way-meet for the swarming legions that intermittently swept across the East in Sauron's obsessive attempts at total domination. But Sauron had not counted on the savvy and cunning of the people of Bajazet. Rather than conduct an unending series of insurrections that would prostrate and eventually destroy the city and cause the annihilation of its people, the merchant-caste of Bajazet instead warmly welcomed the countless minions of Mordor who flocked through their gates. If Bajazet was to be 'The Great Whore of the East', it would at least profit from its prostitution._

_And Bajazet played the cynical role of gaudy courtesan with overt opulence, offering the most enticing entertainments and lavish spectacles for the amusement of its conquering guests. It was at this time that the gladiatorial arenas were first opened in order to take advantage of the insatiable bloodlust of Sauron's armies, as well as a means of regulating the glut of slaves flooding the city. In time, Sauron, evidently comfortable with the subservience of Bajazet, at last withdrew the military governors who long held the city in martial compliance. To take their place, the subtle Sauron introduced the Cult of Morgoth, the ritual praise of the Fallen Angel, subdued but unbroken, waiting the time of final retribution at the end of all things. And to better induce the people to follow this brazen idolatry, the Dark Lord instituted the rule of the Hierophants, Morgoth's priests and sacrificers. _

_The Hierophants, Priest-kings of Bajazet, were first culled from Sauron's most loyal minions, having learned the art of sacerdotal statecraft under the tutelage of the Dark Lord himself. These cruel and venal men proved more vicious than the military governors they replaced, and they maintained power through terror. Blood sacrifice was their weapon and the threat of such ritual their shield from insurrection. However, as with all systems of government, personal gain overawed the original intent of its policy, and the rule of Bajazet strayed further and further from the hand of its master, whose far-flung empire proved too unwieldy even for one such as Sauron the Great. As the Dark Lord's eye became focused on conquest in the West, the priestly aspect of the Hierophant became more ceremonial, for without the direct religious emphasis placed on the role by Sauron, the interest in the Cult of Morgoth dwindled to naught, as it was ever foreign to the people of Bajazet. Thus, the Hierophant became a hereditary title, and passed back and forth among the great merchant families of Bajazet as their fortunes waxed and waned with the furtherance of time._

_The final break with Sauron occurred during the rule of Armortiarna. The Dark Lord's legions passed swiftly from the East as rumor of a new enemy, risen from the waves on the fabled shores of the Western Sea, contested Sauron's might. Armortiana, a man of willful pride and determination, threw off the bitter yoke of Sauron, and repudiated the emissaries of Mordor who came to demand levees and tithes from Bajazet for the war effort. A shrewd ruler, Armortiarna surmised rightly that this Western War was going ill for Mordor, and the dire warnings of Sauron's emissaries against the Hierophant's obstinate refusal of aid were naught but shrill and hollow pronouncements, for Sauron had denuded the East of his armies. Defiantly, the Hierophant consolidated his power by capturing the vestigial garrison that remained to protect Sauron's interests, and he had them fed, each in turn, to the were-worms of the Roaring Waste. Thus, to popular acclaim of his people, Armortiana established the first great dynasty of Hierophants in Bajazet._

_Naught of any definitive nature was learned of the outcome of the War in the West; yet ever and anon, there came the faint and dubious rumors from Dorwinion traders that Sauron was humbled, taken captive, and dragged enchained across the sea. Whether this was factual or merely whispered half-truths magnified by distance and time remains hidden; but in any case, the intervening years of relative peace and an apparent end to subjugation brought prosperity greater even than during Mordor's domination of the city-state of Bajazet. There were those who claimed, perhaps wistfully, that Sauron was dead, but the wise mistrusted such optimism, and the Hierophantic line of Armortiarna guarded against his sudden return by building an imposing standing army and developing a system of garrisoned oases all along the great desert trade routes. The ever-present danger of were-worms was dealt with through continuous diligence and brutal efficiency. After many years, the threat of these serpents of the waste lessened as their broods were found and destroyed, and the progeny of evil was driven further and further into the deep desert._

"What day is it?"

Tatya peered up from behind the binding of the great book, and glanced with bemusement upon his befuddled master. "Why, it was and is Tuesday, master," the apprentice answered rather mockingly, "and it is getting on towards evening. Shall I make you some supper?"

"Eating becomes just another means of passing the time when one has lived too long, Tatya," the old man sighed. "I neither hunger nor thirst, I merely exist."

Tatya's gaze traced the wane outline of Greagoir's hollow cheeks. He had become gaunt and ashen in these last few weeks, and the ruddy pallor that characterized his once robust countenance was all but gone. With worry creeping into his voice, Tatya began to chastise his teacher, "Master, you really must rest more. You need…"

But Greagoir waved off the apprentice's warning with a feeble gesture. "The time for rest will come soon enough," he interrupted irritably, regaining some sense of command in his tone. "There is much I wish to impart, and the summer breeze grows fleeting. Come the autumn, I wish to have done with my tale." Realizing his words implied more than he intended, the master-scribe added, "So that we may concentrate completely on our manuscript without my foolish asides intervening during the winter months."

Tatya laid down the History of Bajazet, relieved that such a monumental editing task was to be forsaken for the time being. Tatya did find it strange that Greagoir had become more helter-skelter with his material, picking up and dropping off assignments in wild fluctuations; but the varied materials and ever changing stories suited the apprentice just fine. It seemed he had little patience to dwell overlong on a specific topic with the ardor of his master. This single-mindedness, he assumed, was a matter of maturity; and if that was the case, he could wait a few more years to assume such a mantle of focus. Yet even as Tatya was considering the method to his master's madness, Greagoir had begun his tale anew, and the mesmerizing sound of his voice gathered strength as it rose and fell with the sonorous and rhythmic phrasing of a timeless bardic cadence.


	23. Chapter 23

**CHAPTER XXIII: **_**A Slave to One's Work**_

Considering the time I had spent as an indentured servant apprenticed to Master Gibiris, and my periods of enslavement under Mifhortun Dur and Marfach-Suil, most of my young life had been spent fettered by one chain or another; and yet here I was, once again a slave. Imrim ar-Cam wasted little time in ordering his caravan back on the road. He had enough fodder for Bajazet's gladiatorial spectacles, and a prize to be delivered to the Hierophant himself as well (namely, me!). Fortunately, Imrim was as good as his word, and I did not spend my time stuffed into a stiflingly overcrowded prison-wain with the other slaves. Bound once more, I spent my time shackled atop a donkey yoked to Imrim's steed as both a precaution against a valuable commodity escaping, as well as a method of amusement for the slaver on this trip down the caravan route to Bajazet.

"I have traveled this route now for five and thirty years," the slaver said proudly. "I have no home but the desert sand and this rocky road, but I have made a fortune on the caravan route!"

I frowned and replied sarcastically, "So, you are saying, the farther you travel, the further you get?"

Imrim ar-Cam chuckled quietly and replied, "Ah, my young friend, no truer words have been spoken. I am an avid collector. I have an eye for the finer things. That much of what I collect goes to feed the arenas is a secondary consideration."

I frowned at the prospect of so many men being thrown into the ring, to be mauled by fell beasts or to be spitted on another gladiator's spear. The very idea was reprehensible. Imrim, a marvel at reading men's thoughts from the slightest of facial movements, caught my distaste immediately.

"Ah then, you do not care for my trade, eh?" he said with a look of feigned slight. "But my dear Greagoir, I provide beneficial services to the community: by watching my spectacles, I sate the bloodlust of those who may otherwise turn to violence themselves; I provide entertainment for the hardworking citizens of Bajazet, perhaps the only avenue many an artisan or laborer has to relieve their work-a-day drudgery; and I cull the excess population of the empire. No one starves here, nor does anyone suffer from want, and there are those in the gladiatorial profession who have chosen to make it a career -- buying their freedom but remaining in the lists -- for the rewards and pay certainly are more appealing than life as a goatherd or rough-scrabble farmer."

Seeing that I remained unconvinced, Imrim added, "But certainly a renowned sea-power the likes of Marannan-astair has slavery? Great men such as Attar Kiryatin must have servants, yes?"

"Servants, yes, and peasants a' plenty to work his land," I replied, "but they are not slaves. Some there are, as I once was, the indentured, who pay their life-debts with a guarantee of servitude over a contracted period of years; and the peasants till their own fields, as well those of their masters. But none there are who die for the amusement of others, or toil with ball and chain."

"A very civilized land you have then, young master!" Imrim smiled down from his saddle, "but in Bajazet, it is not as much so. The people here are as hard and unforgiving as the land itself. In Bajazet, either you are owned or someone owns you. This is the method of our survival and the source of our wealth. We have survived Sauron the Great, and we shall survive the next onslaught when it eventually comes."

I knew well Imrim referred to the forces of Urzahil, the god-king of the Sidhe-Dragun, who, even in my youth, was voraciously consuming the petty kingdoms of the East like a dark fire through parched fields of straw-grass. But looking back from my time-haggard perch, I can see that Imrim ar-Cam was prescient (or perhaps he merely knew the fortitude and wiles of the people of Bajazet). For now no Eastern lands, save for Bajazet and our own island nation, Marannan-astair, have managed to stave off the grim deluge of Urzahil and his rabid legions of zealots. It is said that even the lands of the Dark Elves have fallen under his dominion, and that their great leader, MorThoiriol, has been enslaved; but proofs are few and the distances great in these war-torn lands. Yet, at that time in my life only the lands on the far side of the Orocarni Mountains were under Urzahil's sway; yet rumor of his rapid advance came unceasingly as droves of refugees sought safety further east, seeking the sanctuary they hoped the great red range would provide.

In time, I could espy the golden domes of Bajazet to our west, glittering spectrally in the waves of heat that distorted the very air before my dry and squinting eyes. The vast city sat atop an immense promontory, as if a mountain had been hewed in half as a pretext to lay the formidable foundation of this vaunted capitol. For more than a mere city it was; rather, it was a mighty kingdom in and of itself, a self-contained civilization thriving in the harshest of climes. The great emperor-khans of Tsin-Quinqan had chosen this place as an outpost of their domain wisely. It seemed fitting to me that atop such a natural defensive position Cui-Baili should choose to meet Khamul in mortal combat: the howling desert itself was the first barrier one must overcome, only to be faced by a near unassailable outcropping of unforgiving rock; above that were sheer walls, and uppermost, looming like a great golden fist of defiance, the onion-bulbed tower of the citadel itself.

The stone of the citadel and its massive walls were gleaming white, the color of bleached bones in the desert; but the opulence of the city was evident even before arriving, as luxuriant copses of palm and fig lined the great causeway that arched towards the golden gates, and exotic flora seemed to bloom inexplicably from sand and rock, showing, no doubt, the contempt Bajazet had for the sterile and arid wilderland that enveloped it. Such an extravagant and wasteful use of vital water was the outward symbol of the Hierophant's disdainful mastery of the city and its people. I could drone on and on about the opulence that surrounded me, but suffice it to say, Bajazet's splendor is unlike that of anywhere else in the East, and the Hierophant's sumptuous palace more than rivaled the grandeur of King Eldarion's hall in Minas Tirith, which, if anything, was more austere and grander in its ancient nobility, but not as brazenly gilded and ostentatious as that of the Hierophant's demesne.

After an inordinate wait behind a seemingly unending line of diplomatic embassies, advisors, capital criminals awaiting judgment, and various and sundry other supplicants, petitioners, performers and pundits, Imrim ar-Cam dragged me before the dais of the Hierophant. The slaver turned sudden sycophant in the presence of the Hierophant, and after the fawning introduction by Imrim (which I must say did not do him justice by any means), I was forced to abase myself at the Hierophant's feet (which did me no justice as well). The Hierophant, obviously bored by the endless drone of one petitioner after another, leaned on the arm of his magnificently ornate throne with his hand idly propping up his head.

He eyed me rather contemptuously and then said to Imrim, "You say this fellow was in the service of a Corsair? We are not in the habit of having criminals in our household, slaver, and a threadbare one at that. We shall be missing silver candlesticks within the first week of his employ!"

"I beg your majesty's pardon," Imrim said as he bowed awkwardly, "Greagoir of Caladh is a seasoned diplomat and a chronicler of some renown on the isle of Marannan-astair; leastwise, one needn't be a thief to work for one."

The Hierophant eyed Imrim coldly. "Mind your place, slaver," he growled. "It is one thing for the Hierophant of Bajazet to call the lord of another land a thief and a pirate, but it smacks of insolence coming from the likes of you!"

Imrim swung his fat paunch even lower to the ground, and would have begun to grovel, had the Hierophant not turned his attention to me. "Greagoir of Caladh, is it? What do you have to say for yourself?"

I gave a formal bow with a great flourish, and answered, "I have naught to say for myself, your majesty; on the contrary, it will be my function to transcribe your dictates as it pleases you. I am but the instrument for your imperial word."

"Ah, indeed you are a diplomat, fair Greagoir, and a man who knows his place; but come, lay aside the flattery and speak plainly. If what we have been told is correct, you seem to have gained the enmity of the Court of Geas-Geata, with whom we have a rather lucrative trade agreement. Why should we not send you back in shackles and thus enhance our status with them?"

Imrim gave an audible whimper and sweat began dripping from his forehead. I smiled at the slaver's discomfiture and replied, "Your majesty, they most assuredly believe I am already dead. To send me back now would merely cause turmoil between certain parties at court, and thus cause unnecessary friction with a valued trade partner; whereas, you have need of a talented scribe well versed in the politics of the East, seeing as the previous scribe to occupy such an exalted post regrettably incurred your royal wrath. Who then better to serve thee than myself?"

The Hierophant laughed aloud. "You are a sly one, Greagoir, make no mistake. To have talked your way out of a death sentence, while at the same time increasing your potential value to us is no mean feat. Very well, slaver, we shall take this Greagoir of Caladh into our service. We shall give you three-hundred gold pieces for him."

"But your majesty," Imrim sputtered with his eyes averted, "the agreed upon price was four-hundred gold pieces."

The Hierophant glared in displeasure at Imrim-ar-Cam. "Very well, slaver, two-hundred gold pieces, and that is our final offer. He was in the employ of a pirate, after all."

There was scattered laughter about the court, and Imrim fidgeted with his hands as his eyes darted nervously about. "I…he…we…yes, your majesty, two hundred gold pieces it is."

Before Imrim could scuttle from the court, I felt inclined to exact a bit of revenge on the sly old slaver myself. "Your majesty, I crave one boon from thee!" I cried aloud and bowed once more. "I had a set of books with me which chronicled the illustrious history of the Hierophants of Bajazet; however, the slaver has these in his possession currently. I would be greatly honored to have these returned to me so that I may continue this noble enterprise by chronicling your august rule as well."

Imrim spun about as if he had been slapped, and glared angrily at me, but before he could protest, the Hierophant spoke, "Greagoir, we are well pleased with your manner, and shall grant you this boon. Guards, follow the slaver to his caravan and return with these chronicles. So sayeth the Hierophant!"

I merely nodded at the scowling Imrim ar-Cam as the guards strode forward to escort him from the throne room; but surprisingly, Imrim's frown turned suddenly to a smirk, and the ever-present humor of the slaver at once returned. He winked knowingly and nodded before following the guards from the hall. I suppose the old sneak realized he had been one-upped in our little game of cat and mouse and could appreciate the irony of the situation. There is a strange saying in Bajazet, "sometimes the worm will eat you, sometimes you eat the worm." In hindsight, I assume that this was an apt adage for just such a circumstance.

I must say, that for a slave, the quarters accorded me were rather sumptuous for my austere tastes. I had a extensive library in which to conduct research, with an adjoining bedchamber adjacent to the palace so that I might be at the Hierophant's disposal whenever the mood suited him; and it suited him well and often, for I do well believe His Imperial Majesty did relish the sound of his own voice overmuch (certainly more than I did, and that is for certain). I was ever scurrying there and back again to transcribe his every last utterance. I am surprised he did not have me record which mustards he preferred to garnish his meat at table, so extensive were his demands upon me; yet I must admit I held a grudging respect for the man. Aside from his bloated self-esteem, he was in fact quite shrewd, and a marvelous manipulator of his subjects and the various diplomats who crowded his court. It is little wonder to me that, not long after, he fought the minions of Mordor to a draw, and quelled Urzahil's advance to the North. Such a leader I could well respect and pay due homage to (in my own inimitable manner), save my mind and my heart lay elsewhere.

Every waking hour my thoughts dwelt on finding a means of escape in blind hope of making my way back to Leannan; but such flights of fantasy proved elusive as the furtive figure of the Princess flitted through my waking dreams. She must by now believe that I was dead. Had she surrendered then to despair? Had she acquiesced at last and married a khan's son, and in so doing surrendered her birthright? I had to know, had to find out, if for my own sanity; yet the very guards who protected the palace from the world without, very effectively kept me in. Although I was afforded a modicum of privacy and some freedom to move from my suite to the throne room, I was still naught but a slave, and if I was accorded special favor before the Hierophant, it vanished once I left his presence. I had little doubt that to be caught in an escape attempt meant certain death, and the head of the former master-scribe spitted atop a pike along the battlements was a hideous reminder that the Hierophant was merciless if provoked. I wondered then if it were not better to have accepted the Hierophants offer to send me packing back to Geas-Geata in chains.

Days dragged on into bleary, tedium-filled weeks. I half-heartedly wrote the chronicles of the Hierophant, and bemoaned the fact it had been three months since I had left Geas-Geata. But strange are the ways of fate, as momentous events ensnared both the great and the small, and my fortunes rose with assistance from the most unlikely of quarters. It so happened that a great warlike delegation from Mordor appeared at the gates of Bajazet, demanding an immediate audience with the Hierophant. Black was the livery of their sable steeds and black were the spears that bristled above the ebon-mailed knights of the retinue; but blood red were their banners, emblazoned with a hideous death's head from which coiled the body of a serpent poised to strike. The Hierophant, unused to such bellicose pronouncements issued at his door, was not cowed. Haughty as the man was, he let the delegation bake for hours in the sun until the ambassadors within the group grew more amenable (or perhaps prostrated from the intense afternoon sun). They ordered the armed knights to retreat a goodly way from the gates, and came themselves on foot, bearing a single banner, and asking for admittance in a more civil tone. It was only then that the Hierophant obliged and allowed them entrance.

As the master-scribe, I was of course required to be present during the audience, and record the proceedings. The chief Mordorion ambassador, obviously of a priestly caste, was robed in blood red raiments like the banner his assistants carried aloft behind him, and he held a crosier with a crook carved like the icon on the banner, a serpentish death's head with lolling maw at its tip. Haughty was the pose he struck at the foot of the dais before the Hierophant, and his language was, to say the least, far from diplomatic.

"I bring thee greetings from the Lord of Mordor, Emperor of Rhun, Khand, The Harad and Hildorien," the priest spat, as if such a formality was loathsome to him. "I have come at his bidding to remind the Hierophant of Bajazet that this land was long a province of Mordor, and that my lord wishes to renew the bonds of fealty which by right are due to him."

The Hierophant glared long in angry disbelief at this pompous priest, and it appeared to me that the Hierophant was considering whether to dash the man's brains out there and then; but his hands, clutching the arms of his throne until his knuckles were white, relaxed suddenly and his posture, though erect, became less rigid. He smiled.

"A province of Mordor?" The Hierophant replied succinctly but in a mocking tone, "It would seem the arm of Mordor has grown long, grasping futilely over the centuries for a claim it had lost in another age. Furthermore, it would seem the new tenant on the throne of the Dark Lands has wrapped himself smugly in the ill-fitting cloak of kingship once worn by a lord far greater than he. Although, admittedly, we admire his brazen ambition: to steal with a word that which he could not take, save by the sword."

The priestly emissary of Mordor seemed perplexed, unused as he was to such proud words and defiant tone. "What then will be your answer to the Lord of Mordor, Hierophant?" The priest sputtered. "You speak in riddles! I have no time to bandy about words with thee. Speak plainly thy intentions."

The Hierophant merely smiled, but no further reply did he give at that time; yet it is said that the dismayed delegation of Mordor did indeed return to Mordor in haste with the Hierophant's answer: an ornate box, gilded and inlayed with precious stones – a worthy gift from one sovereign to another -- in which lay the haughty priest's severed head.


	24. Chapter 24

**CHAPTER XXIV: **_**Greagoir's Great Escape**_

For the first time in his brief career as a scribeling, it was Tatya now who insisted that Greagoir cease his recitation. Tatya's alarm for his master's deteriorating state grew by the hour. The old man's skin was sallow, with a sunken gray cast about his lidded, staring eyes, and his breath came and went in shallow heaves. It was as if the tale itself was sapping the master's spirit. Too weak to protest, Greagoir meekly allowed Tatya to guide him to his bed. Tatya reverently placed a coverlet over his master, and begged him to get some rest; but only after the briefest of respites, Greagoir's inherent stubbornness again came to the fore, and he demanded in no uncertain terms that Tatya fetch his quill and parchment so that the story might continue.

When Tatya became indignant and started to protest, Greagoir merely replied, "Humor me just this once, dear Tatya, there will be time enough for rest once I have done with these recollections."

Tatya acquiesced begrudgingly, but would not allow his master to rise from his bed; instead, (and to the master's great consternation) Tatya propped Greagoir up with a bolster of blankets, and took recitations at his bedside. After a good deal of grumbling, Greagoir sighed, "Surprisingly, my escape from Bajazet was aided by the sudden defensive stance of the city." Greagoir offered a reflective shrug and then continued the tale in earnest:

It became obvious that the Lord of Mordor had fully expected a negative response to his demands, and had already encamped his armies somewhere south upon the plains of Hildor. Soon there was such an influx of frightened tribesmen fleeing from the oncoming legions of Mordor, great comings and goings of troops, and a burgeoning crowd of petitioners within the palace itself, that my limited movement as an enslaved scribe to the Hierophant went relatively unnoticed. Given greater freedom to move about the great halls, I quickly mapped out a means of escape. Obviously, a chance misstep meant certain execution for this prodigal prisoner (the Hierophant in no sense was a forgiving man), but I was intent on taking my leave as soon as practicable.

The opportunity presented itself when the first wave of assaults struck Bajazet from the south. The Lord of Mordor had wisely chosen not to storm the citadel directly, given the improbability of success against such an impenetrable bastion. Nay, Urzahil of Umbar -- called the Deathless and Mouth of Sauron -- planned for a permanent state of siege against the desert city-state, destroying the commerce that was the life's blood of Bajazet by severing the arteries by which its sustenance flowed – the trade routes. No mean feat was this undertaking, for the logistics of such an all-encompassing enterprise was daunting to any but the most powerful and ruthless of lords; and in the Fourth Age of Man, none but Urzahil had such a will to dominate and the means to see such a task accomplished.

If I were a braggart, I suppose I would say my plan of escape was audacious and bold; however, in retrospect it was merely rash, decidedly fortunate and relatively easy. During a particularly heavy evening of bombardment (although Mordor's armies did not attack the walls directly, their investment included a nightly pounding from arbalest, catapult and other Orkish modes of siegecraft), I merely walked away from the palace, unheeded and unrecognized. Granted, I stole a uniform from a wounded soldier (who lay abed and had no current use for it), and with forged documents (supplied, of course, by my own hand), I simply requisitioned a horse and rode freely through Bajazet, making for the north gates.

With only a modicum of scrutiny from the listless guards (and assisted greatly by their illiteracy), I passed under the great northern archway with its twin portcullises (which alone of the five principal gateways now offered egress from the embattled city). Making my way down the steeply circuitous path from the plateau, I guided my mount by its reins rather than sitting astride the steed due to my ill ease over the vertiginous drop-off. But just as I was congratulating myself on the relative ease of my flight from Bajazet, fortune deigned to deliver one last blow to my vanity. As the path descended, it wound in a sharp angle to the right and away from the view of the gate wardens. The night sky was ablaze with a myriad stars, allowing me to pick my way downward slowly but surely toward the desert floor; yet even as the anonymity of the desert beckoned and I reached the end of the path, there was a certain scent of unease in the air, or perhaps stench would be a better description. I caught the distinct odor of rotten peas malingering on the vague desert breeze.

The horrid recollection of the smell coincided with a sudden jarring collision, as an unseen assailant sent me sprawling. Disoriented, I groggily attempted to rise from the desert sand, but a knife gleamed dully before my face while the full weight of my oppressor landed fully upon my chest.

"We meet again, eh scribe?" a disembodied voice hissed in the darkness beyond the knife. "Only death can come between us, you and I. But you did not kill me out in desert when you had a chance; now death comes for you."

There was no need for a reply. As my sight became accustomed to the scant light, I beheld the beastly yellow eyes of Marfach-Suil glaring menacingly down upon me from the shadows. He had escaped a public hanging, a knife-wound, a voracious were-worm and the merciless desert itself to find me once more. If it were anyone else, I would have found his persistence admirable; in this case, however, my considerations were not the least inclined towards admiration.

"What, no flowery speech from great scribe?" Marfach mocked. "No jokes for poor old Marfach, eh? I have seen your tricks, scribe, but I fall for them no more. You shall pay for what you did to Marfach -- pay in gold and death!"

Although Marfach's blade pricked my throat, I smiled inwardly. Even now, after all the insults and injury I had rendered unto him, Marfach's greed outweighed his need for quick and final revenge. Since he had not killed me outright (as I certainly expected), it seemed I still had a slim chance of escape. "And what will you do now that you have me at last, Marfach?" I sighed in feigned resignation. "What grand scheme will satisfy your need for vengeance against me?"

In reply, he offered a wicked backhand slap across my mouth. "No schemes or ransoms!" he growled, "no long wait for gold this time! I sell you back to Hierophant for reward! You are escaped slave and for that you die!" He chuckled slyly under his breath and added, "And I take back the great black pearl you stole from me in the desert!"

The mention of the pearl steeled my fortitude. I must get back to Leannan, no matter the consequence. Marfach grabbed me by the hair and dragged me up to my knees. As he bound my hands, I caught sight of a strange series of lights -- like dancing candles rising from the dunes to the west. As they grew closer and more intense, I whispered to Marfach, "Your intention may be to bring me back to Bajazet, but I don't think they'll let you."

The rapidly oncoming glow of thousands of torches kindled the desert sands to a ruddy sheen. The armies of Mordor, it seemed, were preparing a night sortie against Bajazet's northern gates. Marfach snarled and cursed at the capricious whims of war and the necessity for an abrupt change in plans, as it was obvious the forward elements of the sortie were already too close for us to escape back up the causeway. He then quickly tied a rope around my neck, and fastened the other end to the pommel of my horse's saddle, which he promptly mounted, dragging me off eastward at a brisk pace.

And so for a third time in my brief career I was a prisoner of that malodorous miscreant, Marfach-Suil; but to put a fortunate spin on an unfortunate situation, I was at least heading in the right direction. We traveled quite a long way through the desert that night -- for miles it seemed -- and only stopped when Marfach was certain both he and his prize were out of harm's way (an uncanny knack seemingly inherent in thieves of Marfach's dubious stature). That he knew this arid and forsaken region like the back of his hand was evident as well, for we spent the waning hours of the night in an abandoned (or at least currently unused) encampment of Marfach's thievish tribe. The thieves' camp was a squalid affair, littered with bones, broken jars and clay pots, and the strata of refuse piled in flagrant neglect over countless seasons of brigandage. For all of its resemblance to an offal pit, the camp was strategically placed, having a small well, and hidden from prying eyes by rocky outcroppings on three sides that were also proof against the unforgiving desert sun, offering continuous shade throughout the hottest part of the day.

Marfach rifled through my saddlebags and made himself a meal and judiciously fed the horse as well (since I was to be executed soon, he had already decided the steed was his). In an effort to taunt me further, he waved Leannan's black pearl in my face, and then carefully placed it in one of the saddlebags for safekeeping, patting the bag and smirking at me in mocking satisfaction. As an afterthought, he was gracious enough to offer me water; after all, it would me much more difficult to transport me if I died of heatstroke. He then stared at me silently for some time -- which was of course unnerving, what with those feral amber eyes of his -- but I had no interest in striking up a conversation, even though sitting tied up in the middle of a desert is perhaps the most tedious situation one can imagine.

After an indeterminate amount of time, Marfach stood up from his predatory crouch and gazed at the sky along the hazy eastern horizon. "We stay here for now," he grunted, "until storm passes. Storm will drive Orcs from the Northern Gates, then we go back to Bajazet."

"I have never heard it said that Orcs minded a little rain," I replied out of boredom. "What makes you think this storm will drive the Orcs away?"

Marfach grinned, showing his fetid teeth. "Rain?" he said scornfully. "No rain in desert. This is sand storm. Wind howls and sand bites like needles. It rips flesh off horses and men."

"Bloody wonderful," I grumbled, and then settled back into silence, deciding it far more interesting to watch the oncoming storm than engaging in any further dialogue with my cretinous captor.

Great sand storms in the desert are awesome phenomena to behold – from afar. The formless horizon beyond the dunes begins to undulate in waves of heat and wind. Soon there is neither horizon nor sky, there is only sand: great flails and funnels and fuming gusts of brown and gold -- a dark and shining chiaroscuro as the retreating sun's bleak beams seek a fragile foothold in the revolving chaos. Then the burgeoning storm blots out all light like a monstrous moving wall of granular night, and from the seething midst of the maelstrom rise fell voices of malevolent spirits howling and shrieking as they ride the whirlwind, driving onwards in furious abandon, intent on obliterating all living things in their primal rage.

Terror-stricken, I leaned back against the ragged outcropping for support, but sliced my hand on a jagged shard of pottery jutting from the sand. I gasped at the sudden shooting pain, but my outburst was muffled by the bitter wind swirling in the gully. Marfach also failed to hear my cry as he was busily attending to the horse, nor did he notice that I was feverishly grating my wrists against the shard, trying desperately to fray my bonds. In another moment, I would have freed myself, but the full force of the storm smote the thieves' camp with a vehemence that stole my very breath. Sputtering and blinded, I lurched to my side in a vain effort to rise from my prone position, which proved difficult as my hands were still bound behind me and the sand gave little purchase for my floundering feet; yet Marfach managed to stagger over to me and half-dragged me to the far end of the camp. There the standing rock acted as a windscreen that mitigated the harshest aspects of the storm.

Unbeknownst to Marfach, his rough handling in our struggle to reach shelter had finally caused my bonds to break. Now, I am not a violent man necessarily, nor did I bear any particular ill will against Marfach-Suil at that point in time; as a matter of fact, I was really feeling rather sorry for him in a way. He was an inveterate gamesman who always gambled everything on one alluring bet after another, but the grand prize forever eluded him. He could smell it, touch it, taste it – but he was an unfortunate man in a game where good fortune was everything. I hefted a large rock in my hand. "Better luck next time!" I whispered with a shrug, and bashed him as hard as I could on the side of his head. He dropped like a stone.

Odd as it may seem, the storm instantly stopped in so inexplicable a manner I would have likened it to a brewer suddenly turning off a beer barrel's spigot halfway through pouring a pint of porter. It became eerily silent save for a continuous, nearly inaudible moan. The sky was a preternatural shade of hazy yellow the color of sand, as if the atmosphere was permanently tainted by the desert. I scrambled up the rocky slope to get my bearings, and was astounded at what I saw. The virulent storm had not stopped; indeed, I was surrounded by it on all four sides – the desert rearing up great ethereal mountains of dust in all directions. I attributed the phenomenon to tales I had heard from seafarers describing hurricanes on the Eastern Sea – what they referred to as the 'eye of the storm'. Realizing then that the storm would soon resume unabated, I turned to clamber back down to the safety of the thieves' camp, but my way was barred.

There stood Marfach-Suil, his head and neck covered with blood and his dagger poised for a killing thrust. "You…you…," he growled with inchoate fury, his face grimacing maniacally in alternating bouts of pain and rage. "I kill you here, scribe," he panted groggily, still reeling from the savage blow I had given him, "no more I wait...I have my revenge now!"

His brazen blade swept toward me just as the storm hit.


	25. Chapter 25

**CHAPTER XXV: **_**The Makings of a Misadventure**_

Suddenly, I was airborne. What a fearful and utterly helpless feeling to be freefalling backwards from a great height towards an unknown and unseen end. In my desperate effort to elude Marfach's errant knife-stroke, I had clumsily toppled from the top of the ridge. Landing on the forgiving sand below with a soft thud, I still laid breathless from the impact, staring helplessly up at Marfach-Suil as he stood triumphantly atop the looming outcrop.

"You cannot escape me, scribe!" he bellowed above the howling wind. "There is nowhere you can run! This is my desert!"

The brigand's bold pronouncement was immediately followed by a tremendous blast of gale-force winds and a behemoth funnel of swirling sand that sucked the unwary Marfach into its vortex and carried him off shrieking and careening violently out of sight. I had little time to reflect on the irony of Marfach's final testament, having barely managed to grab hold of a great boulder at the base of the ridge (which I had narrowly missed in my fall!), and was clinging for dear life against the horrific power of the storm. I heard the horse whinnying in fright nearby, but there was naught I could do for the poor creature or for myself for that matter -- I was blinded and breathless. The sand was swarming and my mind was swimming, then all turned black.

It was night when I awoke and found myself still gripping the boulder. I vigorously shook the stiffness from my dead hands, then stumbled and fumbled to my feet like a drunken sailor on a weekend shore leave. The night skies were once again alive with countless stars and only a slight breeze stirred the shifting dunes. To my surprise, I heard the horse grumbling and snorting in exasperation and pawing the sand with his hooves. Following the sound of the listless creature, I found him as Marfach left him, its reins still tied round a rock ledge in a corner of the camp. I calmed the flighty beast and checked him over thoroughly. He seemed no worse for the wear after such a harrowing experience.

I fed the shaken steed some grain from a feedbag I had brought along in preparation for the journey, then set off to find the well. After an annoying game of hide-and-go-seek, I uncovered the stone lip of the well, piled high with a great heap of sand. Fortunately, the rock slab that covered the lip had not blown off in the storm and the water below was unspoiled. I drank deeply the brackish water as if it were sweet nectar and carefully washed the rind of sand that caked my hair and face, then filled a water skin so that I might share with my horse. After we had slaked our thirst and rested a bit, I carefully considered the next leg of the journey.

The night was getting on and the horrid desert sun would be up soon. It would not do to travel during the day (a dreadful exertion which I had already experienced once), and there was water and shade aplenty here in the thieves' camp; therefore, spending the daylight hours here made sense. But what of Marfach-Suil? Ah, there was the rub! Could he have possibly survived the swirling vortex? I thought such a feat could not be humanly possible, but knowing that tenacious son-of-a-camel, his undying hatred had outlasted the violence of the storm, and even now he was making his way back to the camp! I laughed aloud at the thought of Marfach cursing and crawling over miles of dunes to find me again; yet all I could do was laugh. For good or ill, I would stay here during the simmering heat of the day and strike out again when the sun next set. But the day proved uneventful in any case, and I set out from the thieves' camp in the cool of the evening, heading due east (as that was the only direction I knew to head in with even a pretext of certainty).

The horse and I made excellent time that night and the night after, following the rising sun with dead reckoning and guided by the bright stars that lit our path at night. To my relief, we stumbled upon the caravan route and an oasis on the third day out. As anonymity is everything in the desert, it was my intention to stay only long enough to fill my water skins and spell the horse for a few hours. I had taken the precaution of donning my old robes and discarding the wounded soldier's uniform I had stolen, so I was fairly safe from arrest and beheading as a deserter by the Hierophant's troops stationed in the area. I also did not fraternize with the various merchants, ne'er-do-wells and vagrants who frequented the well, as I was certain to have a price on my head, and any one of those jackals would have given me up for a few silver pennies.

As I stated, it was my 'intention' to stay at the oasis just long enough to rest my horse; unfortunately, weariness got the best of me and I slept soundly for several hours. I was kicked awake in the midst of a pleasant dream, and roughly dragged to my feet by members of the garrison. A rather brusque sergeant-at-arms eyed me with cold suspicion as two other soldiers held me on either side.

"Where did you get that horse?" the sergeant barked accusatively. "It carries the brand of Bajazet!"

I cursed my stupidity, for the horse's flank bore the graven mark of Bajazet: a were-worm in the shape of a crescent moon partially encircling a five-pointed star (just as the monstrous desert attempts but fails to engulf the great city and its five gates). For all my cleverness, exhaustion had gotten the best of me: I had forgotten to hide the telltale brand! Remaining outwardly calm, I produced the forged document that had aided my escape from Bajazet. The gruff sergeant gave a cursory glance at the parchment (it was obvious he was unable to decipher its contents), glared at me dubiously as I offered an explanation, and then commanded his troops to take me thither to the only literate person presently within the environs of the oasis. The horse and I were led to a sumptuous encampment at the far side of the well, and I was brought to the grandest tent of the assemblage. The sergeant grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and threw me through the tent flap, he following after with a more dignified soldierly disdain.

My surprise at meeting Imrim ar-Cam again was perhaps only slightly less than he looking up to see me once more. But whatever his reasons, the wealthy slaver kept his composure, and rather than letting on that he knew me and my state, he instead addressed the sergeant-at-arms. "Ah, the bold sergeant of the garrison!" Imrim said with his usual joviality, "Pray, what may I do for thee, dear friend?"

"We have captured this man, who may well be a horse thief, or worse, a deserter from the army," the sergeant offered bluntly, but with a bit more congeniality towards Imrim ar-Cam, obviously deferring to the slaver's greater status. "The prisoner claims this document grants him leave to travel abroad. I humbly request you read this document as I…that is, I cannot…"

"No need to trouble yourself with further explanation, sergeant," Imrim interrupted quickly, thus assuring the sergeant did not divulge a weakness before his subordinates. "I would be more than happy to read the document."

With a grunt, Imrim lifted his great bulk from the silken pillow upon which he sat, and took the parchment from the sergeant with a courteous nod. He then pored over the page with great interest, occasionally glancing up at me with mirth in his eyes. After an inordinate and exhausting examination of the document -- punctuated every so often by "hmmm's" and "ahhh's" -- Imrim at last rolled up the scroll and handed it back to the soldier. "I must commend you on your diligence, sergeant," Imrim intoned gravely, "the Hierophant will hear of your good work here." Imrim ar-Cam paused briefly and considered me for a moment (during which my heart sank), but then he added, "However, this man is indeed who he claims to be, and is on a mission to the Khanate of Geas-Geata at the Hierophant's command. It would be in your best interests if you did not hinder him further. He may stay here with me for the present."

The sergeant's surly demeanor suddenly changed towards me and he bowed. "A thousand pardons, sir, I was only doing my duty," the sergeant said with some humility and handed me back the document.

"Think nothing of it, dear friend," Imrim interposed, "again, I commend thee on a job well done -- and here, take this as a token of my esteem." Imrim reached into his robes, pulled out a small pouch of coins and pressed it into the sergeant's waiting hand. Hefting the pouch with evident glee, the sergeant then bowed to Imrim and quickly left the tent with his men, leaving me alone with that crafty old slaver, Imrim ar-Cam.

When the soldiers were out of earshot, Imrim nonchalantly offered me a goblet of wine, which he poured without waiting for a reply. He then sat back down with a great effort and a sigh. He looked up at me with a smirk and a cock of his eyebrow. "Greagoir of Caladh, you are a marvel, make no mistake -- it is a great pleasure to see thee again!"

I glared at Imrim with a bit of amused exasperation. "Imrim ar-Cam, it is you who are the marvel…and a wonder!" I grumbled. "I am not sure whether to thank you, or to slit my wrists now and have done with it!"

Imrim merely laughed and replied, "Ah, young master, 'tis not as bad as all that, truly. That you somehow managed to escape the palace of the Hierophant is laudable in and of itself; I congratulate thee on such a remarkable achievement!" He chuckled and added, "Your forgery is a work of art as well; I can see why the corsair Attar Kiryatin has thee as his envoy. But please, sit thyself down and enjoy the hospitality of my tent for a bit."

I sat down rather incredulously, unsure of Imrim's motives (as the man surely had an underlying motive for anything he had ever done). After an uncomfortable silence where Imrim contented himself by eating dates out of a silver bowl, I plucked up the courage to ask about my fate.

"Fate?" Imrim mumbled in between licking his fat fingers, "Why, Greagoir, you are not fated to return to Bajazet, if that is what you mean. If you believe I would be so crass as to sell thee back to the Hierophant after so marvelous an escapade as yours, you are sorely mistaken." Feigning indignation, he said, "After all, even we slavers have a code of ethics; although not as refined perhaps as those practiced in Caladh." He smiled wryly and plucked another date from the bowl. "Besides, the Hierophant cheated me out of two hundred gold pieces. Given his treachery, I would have to say my business transaction with that lying son of a cur has concluded most agreeably...for myself in any case."

Imrim's protestations of good will and his smug satisfaction at one-upping the Hierophant did not placate my sense of unease. "Then…I am free to leave?" I asked hesitantly.

"Ah, now that question gets to the heart of the matter, does it not?" the slaver laughed heartily. "What am I to do with thee, eh?" He placed a pudgy finger and thumb on his chin and began debating the various aspects of my predicament: "I suppose I could ransom thee back to Attar Kiryatin, but the miles are long and there is no surety of recouping my investment from such an undertaking; and then there is Mharu-muc, the Great Eunuch of the East, perhaps striking a bargain with him could prove advantageous."

Crestfallen, I stared at the wine in my goblet. Having nothing clever to add to Imrim's monologue, I dejectedly drained the cup down to its bitter dregs.

Imrim halted his debate and eyed me sympathetically. "But selling thee to Mharu-muc would most certainly mean thy death sentence. If I remember correctly, that is why he handed thee over to Marfach-Suil in the first place, was it not?" He stroked his beard while waiting for a reply, but as none was forthcoming, he then took the last date from the bowl. He held the fruit up in the air for a moment, studying it carefully as if it were an augur presaging my fate. He then greedily gulped down the date and concluded while still chewing: "Nay, I shall not sell thee to the fat castrato, for thy death would be a crime. There are far too few literate men in the East, young master, and it shall not be said that I, Imrim ar-Cam, was merely a greedy barbarian."

Before I could reply, Imrim continued in a mixture of malice and mirth, "However, there is the matter of the precious books you stole from me. For that heinous theft I expect some form of recompense." He gave a sly glance out of the corner of his eye. "I request that you accompany me on my journey east. I have business on the Gold Coast to attend to, and the trek is most tedious without someone to converse with in an intelligent manner." He looked about cautiously and whispered, "My guards are naught but trained apes, and their speech consists mostly of grunts and grumbles. So, what say you? Do we have a deal?"

What could I say? It was the proverbial 'offer one could not refuse'. In a matter of a few short hours, Imrim ar-Cam and his men had broken camp and we were heading eastward once again. This time, at least, I was not fitted with collar and chain, which certainly made the trip more pleasant, and I must admit that Imrim ar-Cam, for whatever his faults (and there were many), proved to be an excellent host. We spoke of many things, but he showed a particular delight in the tale of my escape from Bajazet, and took grim satisfaction in the demise of Marfach-Suil (evidently not at all pleased at the services the brigand once rendered unto him).

We traveled with surprising speed (due mainly, no doubt, to the caravan not yet being encumbered with wains full of slaves), and I was much relieved when we finally passed the marge of the desert. Here the land convulsed in a succession of hills covered with long, deep-rooted grasses that stubbornly blunted the desert's omnivorous need for expansion. To the south lay the great steppes of Hildor and far to the north rose the frost-laden moors where only tenacious lichen and heather managed to grow; however, my thoughts marched forever forward -- to the east – to those sunny lands of verdant green that nestled along the Eastern Sea. I laid down my head on a saddlebag and stared up at the stars. At our current pace, we should arrive in Geas-Geata in perhaps a fortnight. I closed my eyes and pictured Leannan as I last saw her -- I heard her soft voice and tasted her final kiss – and together in vibrant dreams we strolled the jasmine-scented paths that wended languidly through the prodigious groves and graceful gardens entangling the sainted Sepulcher of Cui-Baili...

Tatya quietly placed his parchment and quills on the bedside table and pulled the coverlet up to his dozing master's white tufted chin. Tatya stretched and yawned and splayed his constricted fingers like a cat newly roused from sleep; but he was not tired -- the apprentice no longer desired sleep. He smiled and gazed fondly down upon Greagoir. Perhaps he was becoming more like his master in some respects.


	26. Chapter 26

**CHAPTER XXVI: **_**The Carrion Feast**_

Tatya heard his master speaking to himself. The apprentice was in the other room of the Cotter's cottage at the time and followed the lilting cadence of Greagoir's voice as if the sound was a will-o-the-wisp drawing him enchanted to the master's bedside. To Tatya's irritation, the master had continued his story as if the apprentice were still sitting nearby taking dictation! Greagoir's wide-eyed stare unnerved Tatya, and it seemed now that the tale came from the master's frail body by its own volition, consuming the host as it gained the strength to take wing. Seeing the continuing toll it took on poor Greagoir, Tatya suddenly dreaded the tale and wished it would end. He hovered over Greagoir's bed, considering whether or not to interrupt the master's recitation, but the more he thought about it, the more he was sure to dread the story's interruption even more so than alleviating his master's pain. He just could not bring himself to stop Greagoir, for amidst his revulsion a divergent and vulgar curiosity had suddenly taken hold of him as well. For good or ill, he thought, the tale must not cease 'ere its completion – it must continue without compromise to whatever end!

Banishing guilt to the shadowy hinterlands of his mind, Tatya quickly took up his quill and parchment and began scribbling in the manic shorthand he had learned so many years before in the Guild Hall, capturing the essence of the master's prose to be reconfigured later at his leisure. The apprentice smiled warmly – but nothing was leisurely for the master! Tatya's scrawling hand raced feverishly across the page to sustain in writing what Greagoir absently spoke in staccato lines of loquacity that rose and fell -- sometimes strident, sometimes murmuring – a tidal ebb and flow of words:

At last, the caravan neared the marches of Geas-Geata. In our travels, I had told Imrim ar-Cam much of the tale of woe that was the khanate's current state, but the slaver was rather unsympathetic to the country's plight. As a ruthless man of business, Imrim saw the expedience of Leannan's forced marriage to the prince of Talamh, and even shrugged off the apparent poisoning of the khan and the sham-protectorate assumed by Mharu-Muc. "A feeble head makes for an enfeebled body," was his rather harsh assessment. "Weakness in a ruler shall always be exploited, either from without by bullying neighbors, or from within, as is the case with Mharu-Muc's influence over the khan." Ever a conspiratorial sort, Imrim held a grudging admiration for the fat eunuch, Mharu-Muc, but voiced some reservation regarding his recent ploy. "I believe the castrato has overreached his aim on his latest gambit," the slaver opined, "as I do not see an advantage for him in this changeover of power from Geas-Geata to Talamh."

"Mharu-Muc," I spat as if the name were a curse, "believes he is capable of controlling the khan of Talamh as he has with the khan of Geas-Geata. His ambition is as boundless as his bloated belly."

Imrim ar-Cam laughed long and hard. "Ah, young master," he said, wiping a tear from his eye, "I had forgotten the hatred you hold for the Great Eunuch." He mustered a bit of seriousness for a moment and said, "But I have not forgotten where your true sympathies lie in the matter. Thou art a remarkable youth, Greagoir, yet a youth thou still art. Your glib tongue does not always mask your inexperience. Your intentions are plainly seen for anyone who has the whit to see them."

The confoundingly subtle Imrim was, of course, correct; he could read me like a book. Although I had not made my love for Leannan manifest in our discussions, Imrim had discerned my burning hope from the very absence of its mention. In my futile attempts to steer clear of the topic, I had struck ever nearer to the mark. Looking back on my travels with Imrim ar-Cam, it must have seemed utterly absurd to the worldly slaver that my only wish was to return to the very place where my chances of death were most certain. In other words, the only logical assumption Imrim could make was that my decision was not based on logic at all, but rather on the illogic of love.

"I can see that desire has offered thee sustenance in your dreadful trials these past few months," Imrim stated, filling the lull in the conversation, "but what sustains can also destroy if it is relied on overmuch. Beware of relying on Desire, for she is a fickle mistress."

We came to a point where the caravan route intersected with a road that ran in a southeasterly direction – the path leading to my final destination. I had half-expected that Imrim ar-Cam's guards would accost me right then and there, and the sly slaver would attempt to make yet another profit off my flesh and bones, but Imrim was as good as his word (perhaps slavers do indeed have a code of ethics, after all!). Imrim gazed at me with sad resignation, making no attempt to dissuade me from my intended journey. He did manage a wan smile and said, "I do not think you shall find that which you seek, young master, but who knows, eh? Perhaps what you do find might prove more profitable to thee in the long run; for there are many paths to wisdom and not a one is easy." He veered his pony back onto the caravan route and put a palm to his forehead. "Fare thee well, young master," he said, once again beaming broadly, "I feel in my heart that we shall not meet again; but if perchance we do, think better of this humble merchant."

I smiled and waved as the jovial rascal rejoined the caravan on its steady progress towards the coast, but little did I linger there. Throwing caution to the wind (and common sense as well), I prodded my courser onward at a full gallop, hoping against hope that I had not arrived too late. There was, here and there, a peasant or two heading briskly in the opposite direction, but I thought nothing of it; that is, until there became a steady stream of farmers and villagers all heading north, clogging the road with wains and carts and satchels and bags, horses, oxen, goats, pigs and other impediments to my progress. I haled an old thatcher burdened with a great bundle of rushes slung over his shoulder and asked why he fled. "Och, yonge soir, 'tis th' endin' 'o' ter world, tha' it is!" he cried as he dropped his load and mopped his forehead with an old rag. "War's upon us! War and

r-o-o-o-n! Sure'n, ter city's been taken! Fly! Flee! 'Tis th' end, I tell ye!"

Tried as I might, no amount of prodding could pry any further information from the babbling thatcher, other than strident variations on impending doom in his colloquial gibberish. I decided I must get closer to the city in order to ascertain the situation first-hand. As I drew nearer the embattled enclave, fire and smokes curtained the horizon in stark black and feral orange. The flight of refugees now so swamped the rutted thoroughfares that it proved near impossible for me to pass. I dismounted and guided my steed up a bald hillock overlooking the madding crowd -- a great swarming sea of frightened folk seething and writhing in vain desperation -- choked, clogged and constricting further and further as they funneled into the few narrowly furrowed lanes that offered egress from the fiery siege.

From my embattled perch, I chanced to see many jostling court officials floundering frantically amongst the great-unwashed masses (as close as they had ever come, no doubt, to the lesser classes, save for barking orders at the occasional scullion or footman). Here were the courtesans and courtiers, the chamberlains and chatelaines, unhorsed and uncarted, left to fend for themselves by their far wiser servants, who had ignored the palace's faltering rule of courtly caste and unceremoniously fled to save their own unscrubbed necks. Now, save for their garish garb and brazen baubles – brief flashes of outlandish color in a motley mash of drab browns and greens – the disheveled remnants of the khan's court struggled to distance themselves from their former life of finery and fair façade. But one young lady in the throng caught my interest immediately. She had been a handmaiden of Princess Leannan and would oft pass messages between the two of us during my stay at court. I managed to catch her eye with a series of undignified (albeit comical) hand waves, jumps and halloos, and she immediately recognized me. I scrambled down the hillock and waded into the sea of confusion as she swam crosscurrent to meet me. With a furious effort, we managed to struggle through the throng and find our way back up the hilltop.

Once safe from the press of the mob, the handmaiden still had a look of fear and doubt; but little did I know her somber mien was meant more for me rather than for her own tribulations. "You…you are not dead!" she exclaimed in awe.

I put a hand to my chest and smiled. "No, despite rumors to the contrary, it would appear I am still among the living; although, given the many attempts upon my life, I am as surprised as you to be here and in one piece."

She did not smile in return. Tears welled in her eyes and she cried, "Then all is for naught!"

She became so distraught it took quite a while to calm her down. When at last she could speak again, she told me of the plight of Princess Leannan. It would seem that several months after my abduction, Leannan at last resigned herself to a loveless marriage to the prince of Talamh, a rather vain and brutish youth given to scandalous excesses. With the mysteriously prolonged incapacity of her father -- who still hovered feverishly at death's door but lingered on month after agonizing month -- Leannan, as sole heir to the throne (and by all rights queen should the khan die), was required as signatory (in lieu of her incoherent father's absence) for the various treaties and nuptial agreements that would bind the khanates of Geas-Geata and Talamh. This task not even Mharu-Muc as regent-protector could perform, for the necessity of a legitimate transference of power was paramount, given the other predatory khanates and princedoms along the Gold Coast watching hungrily for a chance to steal the throne. If the treaties were not binding by royal decree, it would invite a war that Mharu-Muc had no stomach to fight.

But he had not bargained on the shrewdness and iron will of Leannan. She forestalled the signings with feigned illnesses and monumental tantrums, all the while dealing in secret with other khanates in hopes of reaching some sort of bargain that would save her father's faltering throne. But alas! Mharu-Muc proved to be more adept at this royal game of cat-and-mouse, uncovering and smashing each plot before it bore fruit. At the last, Mharu-Muc forcibly trumped Leannan's continuing efforts by threatening the khan himself, only guaranteeing the feeble khan's lingering life if Leannan agreed to the accords. To this, the exhausted Leannan felt honor-bound to comply and sadly agreed to give her royal consent to the veritable surrender of Geas-Geata to Talamh. Brooking no more delay, Mharu-Muc hastily called for a great feast whereat the prince of Talamh and all his royal dignitaries should meet the Princess Leannan and sign the concordats that would bind the two khanates together (it is of note that the khan of Talamh himself could not attend the ceremony due to the uncertainty of rule and ongoing strife along the Gold Coast).

But the conspiratorial Mharu-Muc remained troubled and trusted not Leannan's sudden submission, for a treacherous heart ever expects treachery in the dealings of others. Taking no chances, he summoned a phalanx of food and wine tasters for the festivities, and he doubled, then tripled the guards. With this great cordon in place, he then decreed that no sword or dagger should be allowed within the feasting hall, and as a final indignity to Leannan, the mistrustful eunuch had the princess and her handmaidens forcibly searched to assure they concealed neither hidden poisons nor any ornaments that might be wielded as weapons. Only with these precautions in place did Mharu-Muc allow the ceremony to begin.

Amid the sniggering and oafish banter of the Prince of Talamh and his coterie, the austere Princess Leannan, both regal and unbowed, made her entrance into the garishly festooned hall and silently took her seat at the high table between the prince and the enormous Mharu-Muc.

"Look fellows, see what my father has bought for me!" the haughty Prince laughed to his cohorts as he leered at Leannan. Then turning to Mharu-Muc, he remarked with a sneer, "I trust my new pet has been declawed, eunuch; for although I enjoy my women with high spirits, it will not do to have some wild thing kill me in my sleep."

"She will be…mmmm…compliant, your highness," the grossly fat eunuch drawled confidently. He glared threateningly at Leannan with his beady, porcine eyes and added, "For she holds the fate of her father and her kingdom in her…mmmm…delicate hands."

"Yes…delicate…deliciously so," the Prince crooned lasciviously, ogling his prey up and down as if he were a wolf slathering over a prone lamb, "she shall make a fine brood mother." Suddenly, as if he found this idea somewhat repugnant, he barked, "But all this prattle is tiresome, let us make an end to this folly now; for as you wish to retain your powers and titles in Geas-Geata, Mharu-Muc, so too I wish to have meat and wine." He gave the eunuch a wink and chuckled, "For it seems we both think with our stomachs!"

Mharu-Muc bowed gratuitously and immediately clapped his hands and the royal scribes and stationers came forth with the ornate documents, as well as golden inkpots and quills with gilded feathers for each of the signatories. Without so much as a word or even a brief perusal of the accords, the prince of Talamh hastily scrawled his name in the proper spots as pointed out by his whispering advisers as they hovered about him like so many buzzing drones; and Mharu-Muc, as lord-protector of Geas-Geata, followed likewise in smug silence. Finally, as if in afterthought, the whole prodigious pile of parchment was laid before Princess Leannan – the barest formality for a brazen theft. There was a perceptible quiver of her hand as she reached for the gilt quill, but she paused before dipping it in the inkpot. Leannan gazed helplessly out at the assemblage, looking perhaps for just one kindly face in the crowd. She closed her eyes for a moment, and when at last she opened them, she seemed to have regained the resoluteness and calm composure she had displayed earlier. The princess smiled sadly and spoke without wavering so that the entire hall could hear her:

"Since my lords have deemed it unnecessary to offer speech befitting this august occasion, it has fallen to me -- as last of the royal line of Geas-Geata -- to speak on their behalf and for my beloved father, the stricken khan. Firstly, I welcome his highness, the Prince of Talamh, to our realm. I find it comforting to know that one of his stature and manner shall soon assume the position of my fallen father. Secondly, I acknowledge the tireless efforts of Mharu-Muc, whose diligence as protector of the khan and his throne has made this event possible. May all subjects who serve the crown in such manner receive their just reward."

Leannan dipped the quill in the inkpot and concluded, "Lastly, I echo the sentiments of the Prince of Talamh, when he uttered, 'let us make an end to this folly now'; and so, it is with a final, bitter stroke that I mark an end to Geas-Geata!"

Without a moment's hesitation Leannan turned and plunged the sharpened quill into the neck of the gloating prince, who, save for a brief gasp of shocked surprise, fell instantly dead. The horrified lords sitting around the table were too stunned to act immediately; thus, Leannan quickly grabbed up an inkwell and forced it to the lips of the rotund Mharu-Muc, who was too sluggish to fend off her attack. Too late now did he consider the loyalty and love the court scribes had for the scholarly Leannan, she who was their patroness and protector, and gladly thus did they supply her poisoned ink. "Drink of thy treachery, foul eunuch!" Leannan hissed vengefully as she drove the inkwell further into the fat traitor's mouth, "for it can be said that today the pen is truly mightier than the sword!"

Mharu-Muc sputtered and spat in desperation, but the poison acted near as quick as it had on the Prince of Talamh, and he slumped over convulsively, his darting tongue stained black and lolling out of his frothing mouth. When the other dignitaries finally accosted Princess Leannan, she merely laughed as one who was fey and cried, "Fools, there is naught you can do to me now! I died hours ago with my dear father -- may the khan rest in peace!" She faltered as the slow-acting poison wound its way through her vitals. "But I shall find no rest here," she murmured as one dreaming, "I must go on a final journey to find he who has my heart in his keeping..."

With that mournful whisper of wistful melancholy, Princess Leannan died, and Greagoir the Scribe fell silent as the deepening gloaming of a chill autumn evening shrouded his room in tomblike stillness and shadow.


	27. Chapter 27

**CHAPTER XXVII: **_**Dance Along the Rim of the World**_

Greagoir remained motionless and unspeaking for several days, and the guilt-ridden Tatya doted in tireless servitude over his sleeping master. The apprentice cursed himself for having allowed Greagoir to continue his sad tale, but now none of his contrite pleadings or diligent efforts could rouse Greagoir from his self-imposed exile. Had Tatya not been so distraught, he may well have noticed that some of the color had returned his master's face, and that he sometimes stirred in the midst of his dark dreams.

"Selfish, that's what you are," Tatya muttered, "selfish and stupid!"

"Yes, you are stupid," Greagoir drawled languidly as if still entranced by his dream-state, "but stupidity is an infirmity of youth, and the only cure is a good dose of age." He licked his cracked lips and his eyes fluttered weakly open. "Yet as you can see, the dosage is oft more deadly than the disease."

Delighted, Tatya ignored (as usual) Greagoir's jabbing pun, and embraced his master tearfully.

"Tatya!" Greagoir groused irritably, "As I have not yet died, is it your intent to smother me?"

"O dear master, I thought that you had left me!" the apprentice cried miserably.

"Tatya, we must all take our leave sooner or later," Greagoir grumbled without the hint of sentiment. "I have not trained thee these last several years to be a hired mourner for my funeral procession, scant as it may soon prove to be. Now, cease your ignoble caterwauling and prepare me some food. Can you not see I am famished, you lazy lout!"

Tatya rolled his eyes and grinned as he rushed off to fetch his master's meal, but the smirk faded into thoughtfulness as he doled some savory stew into a bowl. Had the master really been training the apprentice all this time? Often in the past, it did not seem more than the meanest servitude -- the dreary scribing of a series of meandering monologues at the behest of an eccentric scholar -- but these last several months had emboldened the scribeling, who only now could see the deft maneuvering by which the master had set the apprentice on the path to his chosen profession. Yes, now without reservation Tatya emphatically chose to follow Greagoir in this odd life of self-depravation, vainglory and verbosity. Henceforth, he would mirror the efforts of his beloved master.

"Dash it all, Tatya!" Greagoir bellowed from the other room. "Are you growing the ingredients for the meal? Might I get something to eat while I still have strength to chew?"

Or perhaps not, Tatya thought with a wince.

Although Greagoir had revived somewhat, he could no longer rise from his bed. This, of course, only increased his cantankerous nature (his tongue-lashings, however, had lost none of their potency), but Tatya stoically shrugged off even the most towering rants of the crippled curmudgeon, wisely deciding that channeling the frustrated master's fettered energy into recitations might prove a tonic for his failing health (or at the least, curtail the chains of curses he hurled). During a particularly nasty explosion (wherein Greagoir likened Tatya to Orkish extremities of a most unseemly nature), the serene apprentice quelled the outburst by slyly asking, "What happened after you were told of Princess Leannan's sad demise?"

Greagoir opened his mouth and raised an accusative finger towards the heavens, but the tirade was instantly suffocated with a gasp and then a groan of sudden defeat. Realizing he had been perhaps just a bit too harsh on Tatya, Greagoir accepted the cruel query as a none-too-subtle reminder of his own beastly attitude. "What happened?" he sighed at last, "Nothing, or at least naught that I could recall for some time. Looking back, I can see that I was rather callous towards Leannan's handmaiden, ignoring her plight and merely riding away after I had learned of our shared loss. I did not thank her, nor did I offer her any assistance." He cast a blind eye in Tatya's direction and groaned morosely, "Many are my regrets, Tatya, but that bitter bit of selfishness on my part still unsettles me. I was too lost in my own grief to care for anyone…least of all myself."

The master bit his lip pensively, chewing the vagueness of fleeting memories. "I remember riding northward, as that seemed to be the path of least resistance – few refugees chose to flee in that direction. I drank little and ate not at all; one cares little for food when one has lived too long. But there was plenty of forage for the horse, and he showed little concern for our errant ride. Truthfully, I had no certain destination save perhaps for a deep-seated compulsion to fly to the furthest edge of the world and cast myself into the frigid Northern Sea, seeking blessed oblivion in her icy embrace. Days…nights…endless miles --'twas all a bitter blur -- made more bleak as the rolling, green terrain surrendered to the somber and sparse moors.

"The farther I traversed in my blind ride, the colder it became, till my steed heaved great gusts of frosty mist as he trod over the hard scrabble and heather. The cold sting of the wintry wind did little to rouse me from my melancholy; nay, it merely numbed my senses all the more. The bald remnants of the mighty mountains Morgoth reared in the time before time piled in jagged profusion before me like some long-dead behemoth's skull-less, snaggle-toothed jawbone, eroded now to the point where its spiny peaks proved no deterrent to travel, with gaping cavities wide enough for whole regiments to pass through ten men abreast. But the treacherous terrain of scaling shale and crumbling, ice-bitten limestone proved dubious for a rider and his mount; therefore, I at last conceded the ride and walked instead with my horse scrambling behind me.

"Haphazardly picking my way up the blasted slope, my surging impulse for self-destruction still impelled me forward; although I must admit that the need for this prolonged and arduous journey to entertain such a spectacular exit – with neither notoriety nor fanfare -- has proven in hindsight to be merely a bit of epic whimsy, poetic grandeur on such a ridiculous scale that it could only be fathomed in the mind of a passionately overwrought youth. Yet, such was my melancholy at the time that only a final gesture of the grandest magnitude would suffice. Now, passing the very crest of the blasted hills, I was buffeted by the brutal winds that roared and bit without ceasing from the howling desolation of the fathomless Northern Sea, which is called Ekkaia in the ancient texts. The great gray expanse yawned endlessly before my watering eyes, a vast tortured field of frozen waves and broken floes of glacial brine petrified after ages of violent upheaval and grinding turmoil into grotesque statuary and mangled monoliths: grasping, clinging, curling, colliding, leaning, swerving, toppling and rising in confusion; with wisps and gusts and eddies of windborne hoarfrost capering and pirouetting down the maddening labyrinth of avenues and alleys that meandered in and out and around the manically sculpted and rimed ice.

"Wiping the stinging tears from my squinting eyes, I searched vainly for open water, but could only perceive a faint black ribbon of slushy current along the farthest horizon, countless miles from the twisted shore. Despairing of my goal, denied my grand gesture, I sat defeated atop the icy ridge, allowing the scourging winds to exact their cold punishment on my tired bones. Exhaustion and despondency, the clutching hands that strangle the spirit, choked the last vestige of will from aching body, and I laid down there to die. I spoke Leannan's name once but the shrieking wind stole even my voice, and like horrid laughter, it echoed in my ears until I surrendered to darkness."

Tatya involuntarily shivered. His teeth chattered and his fingers grew numb as he gripped his quill. Suddenly, he remembered he had left the window ajar and the cold rain from without had blown the hinged bit of wood framing affixed with waxed paper wide open, chilling the room. Setting his writing paraphernalia aside while the master paused, Tatya bolted fast the window and resumed his vigil alongside Greagoir's bed. The master paid little heed to the apprentice's movements, for the coldness of the room meshed precisely with his wintry reverie.

Sitting once again at his station, Tatya, impatient of the prolonged silence, beckoned: "Yet, you did not die."

"Tatya, I see your powers of deduction have grown great over the years," Greagoir huffed in exasperation. "Of course I did not die, fool! Although I should have." Then as if to punish Tatya further for his impudence, Greagoir pouted, refusing to continue the tale.

Not to be outmaneuvered in this scholarly chess match, Tatya sighed, "Ah, but you are tired, master; perhaps we should leave off here so that you may regain your wits."

"My wits? My wits!" Greagoir exploded, and was about to condemn Tatya in the most execrable terms, when he suddenly thought better of it. Winking a blind eye at his apprentice, he grinned slyly and said, "Nay, dear Tatya, we shall continue. You may scrub the chamber pot after we have finished."

Having regained the upper hand (and relishing Tatya's inability to offer a suitable retort), Greagoir continued with renewed gusto: "No, I of course did not die, which was remarkable not for the manner in which I was rescued, but rather, by the hand that saved me."

Tatya recalled a conversation many months earlier regarding the great black staff his master had long carried about and the personage that had presented it to him. "Ah! It was the wizard!" Tatya blurted excitedly, "the tale of the wizard and the black staff!"

Greagoir forcibly bit his lip to stifle a surging curse. Drawing a deep breath from the very pit of his stricken frame, he then exhaled a menacing hiss through clenched teeth, "Yes, the black staff, Tatya -- which I would brain you with if it were only within my grasp!"

The apprentice lapsed into a jumble of mumbled apologies as the master rolled his eyes and sighed. When a sufficient amount of time lapsed and silence once again pervaded the room, Greagoir continued, "Now, short of any further impudent explosions (at this he cast a rather sharp glance in Tatya's direction), "I was recounting the manner in which I was rescued, and by whom."

Greagoir paused a bit longer for a weightier effect, and then fell back into his trancelike, bardic cadence.


	28. Chapter 28

**CHAPTER XXVIII: **_**A Most Mysterious Host**_

I knew not for how long I had passed into the void. The yowl and yammer of the wicked wind faded into the evernight of my empty soul – a frigid chrysalis of lost hope where dreams do not intrude. Then the faintest whistle of the wind returned -- but with a mere echo of its former virulence – baffled and buffered now as if restrained to sussurate through the empty and ambling halls of my vacant mind. And warmth there was, creeping with luxuriant insinuation around my frozen joints and brittle bones, coaxing me to consciousness in languid stages like the gradual caress of a spring thaw. What light there was flickered wanly in the darkness, cast by a sputtering fire in the mean grate of a roughhewn hearth. As my eyes became accustomed to the meager half-light, a sense of immensity impressed my vision, for I could not guess at the proportions of the room in which I laid. There was a great stone wall from which the misshapen hearth protruded, but I could neither ascertain any other walls in this airy expanse, nor descry a ceiling in the shadowy recesses that yawned above me; and no sound was there save the far-off murmur of the incessant wind.

No sooner had I propped myself up upon my elbows to gain a better perspective of my surroundings, then I heard the shambling footfall of soft boots scraping carelessly across the stone floor. Intrigued but oddly unafraid, I watched as a silent specter approached from the nether regions of the voluminous hall. As the scant light allowed, I ascertained the measure of the figure. He was cloaked in robes of battered blue, perhaps of heavenly azure once on a time, but now sullied and clouded by years of neglect until his garments were marbled and swirled like the sky at the onset of a storm. Tall this old man was and obviously robust and muscular in his prime, but like the fading of his outer raiments, he had sagged into corpulence with the mounting of the years; yet he carried this added poundage with a powerful step that belied his girth. He had the appearance of an ancient and lordly walrus whose blubber staved off the frigid climes of this northern wasteland, and, to my amusement, his long white moustaches drooped down his frazzled grey beard like prodigious tusks. There was no hair on his bald pate, save for wisps of white that encircled his head above his ears, and a formidable arch of grey eyebrows that ranged above his bright blue eyes like wintry thickets grown wild to stave off the freezing rain and hoary sea-spray from his piercing sight.

He did not acknowledge my presence at first; rather, the imposing figure placed another bit of scrap wood on the fire and mumbled what sounded like an incantation in a strange tongue. Flames immediately leapt up the flue.

With his attention still on the hearth, he muttered distractedly, "Speak you…the tongue of the…West?" The manner in which he hesitated left the impression that he had not mouthed such words in quite a long time.

I replied that I did indeed speak Westron fluently, and a good many other tongues as well, proudly rattling off an impressive list of several languages and subsidiary dialects for his edification. He turned from the fire with an odd look, almost as if he were perturbed. "Westron will do," he grumbled finally, and came closer to my bed.

Without another word, he took my wrist ('checking the pulse', a means by which healers supposedly divine the strength of one's heart by the rhythmic beat of blood through the veins). Satisfied, he laid my hand back down on the coverlet and said, "Hmmm… recovering well -- or so it seems." Before I could answer, he added brusquely, "I suppose there be some reason for laying up in the hills where I found you, but I prefer not hearing the tale as it is certain to concern me not at all…," he paused with that same look of irritation, "…and will sure to be overlong in the telling."

Unable to make a fitting reply without being insulting, I remained silent, which seemed to suit him fine and he continued, "Luckily your horse had more sense than you and sought out shelter further down the hill. That is where I found him and eventually came upon you as well. Near to death you were, having reached that state wherein body temperature drops to such a low level that internal organs cease their function. It took much of my…concentration…to bring you 'round again."

I suppose I should have thanked him for my rescue, but the sorrowful recollection of the past several weeks, and thus my whole purpose for being in this frozen wasteland, bore heavily on my mind. He seemed to catch the rueful nature of my somber mien and said with a strange gleam – one could say almost mirth – in his clear blue eyes, "Ah, my efforts were unwanted perhaps?"

I did not answer directly, averting my eyes in shame and weariness, but his twinkling gaze remained upon me. "Regrets!" he sighed sympathetically, "Who has not chastened themselves for past misdeeds?" Then, seemingly more to himself, he murmured wistfully, "Or the failure to act when called upon?" He shook off this sudden reverie and added more forcefully, "No, my young friend, there is no nobility in surrendering one's life to the bitter bite of regret. What is past cannot be undone, even in death. The meager span allotted to man, prone as he is to mischance and ills unnumbered, is far too tenuous for such self-mortification." When my eyes again met his he smiled and patted my hand. "Fear not, you shall die soon enough."

When in reply I gaped at him with astonishment, he rolled his eyes as if his remarks were misinterpreted. "I meant 'soon' only in a manner of speaking," he grumbled apologetically, and then his gaze searched past me in the darkness and his voice fell to a husky whisper: "I foresee that you still have many, many years of productive life ahead of you." He shrugged and then concluded, "At least, according to the measure of your sickly race."

My unease did not abate. "Who are you?" I gasped, struck by the stranger's candor and his seeming detachment, nay, utter disinterest, for the race of Man. He spoke as if he were divorced from mankind, although to my eyes he was clearly not of the immortal Elvish kindred.

"Who am I?" he grunted sullenly, "Better to ask 'who once were you?' than dwell on this present miserable incarnation. I was a member of an ancient order and the keeper of a sacred trust, but I abandoned that mission long ago." He gazed at the fire despondently and whispered, "and those of my order have departed…or are lost."

No more would he intimate at that time (although my natural curiosity grew apace with his cryptic replies), save that his name (or at least, what some men called him) was Pallando, and that he had lived in this cave (for that is what this place was) on the edge of the Northern Sea for years long past counting. He remained an enigmatic figure (to my great annoyance) all through the weeks I convalesced, remaining unfathomable and circumspect (to my mind belligerently so) even to my most diplomatic inquiries. But, despite the outward appearance of aloofness, he showed an intense interest in the current state of affairs in the world outside his self-imposed confinement, particularly the resurrection of Mordor and of Urzahil, the self-proclaimed Dark Lord of that dismal and savage land, who even now was laying siege to Bajazet with his vast legions. I was chagrined to find he cared little for my personal travails (which he would brusquely interrupt with an impatient grunt and a sour frown), but would always attempt to lead our rather one-sided dialogue back to the foreboding situation in the East (and to Urzahil foremost, paying little heed to the bitter feuds and ever-changing rule of the khanates along the Gold Coast).

"Urzahil? a rather strange name for this period in history, don't you think?" he drawled quizzically. "It is of the Adunaic tongue, I believe – that of the drowned land of Numenor – where again did you say this Urzahil was from?"

I replied with chagrin that I knew little of Numenor or its language, but that I was certain this Urzahil had proclaimed himself to be a lieutenant of Sauron, a man with the ominous title of 'The Mouth of Sauron' in the chronicles of Minas Tirith. To my recollection, he had studied sorcery under the tutelage of the Dark Lord himself.

"A man you say?" Pallando said studying me keenly. "That is highly doubtful. If, as you say, this man lived during the time of Sauron's reign, he would now be perhaps three hundred or more years old, which is preposterous! Even at their zenith, the Numenoreans were not granted such a span of life; at least, none but the likes of Elros and his immediate successors." His sparkling blue eyes became hooded beneath his beetling brows. "And a sorcerer to boot, eh? Hmmm….well, say not sorcery but necromancy – the summoning of spirits -- and perhaps you shall be closer to the mark."

Again, I could not follow his line of reasoning, and he did not expound further. "Given the seemingly limitless and arcane gifts given to the Men of the West in their prime, and of their intermingling with the race of Elves," I blurted in exasperation, "I had never considered that their could be natural limits to men's life spans – at least not in specific cases (particularly when eldritch powers were involved)." I thought back to my youth and the audience with King Eldarion Telcontar, who seemed ageless beyond count of mere mortals. "Could not those of the same Numenorean line, or those enhanced by preternatural beings such as Sauron, be so endowed?"

"No!" Pallando snapped with a finality that stunned me to silence. "Neither Sauron, nor his master, Morgoth, could prolong or create life. That ability was beyond them."

"But…what of the Nascgaol, the Ringwraiths of Sauron?" I stuttered futilely, trying my best to perhaps prolong the dialogue with the usually reticent Pallando. "Did they not have unnatural long life; for they were only men, albeit men of great power and influence?"

"The _Nazgul_?" Pallando said, correcting my pronunciation in Westron. "Their life as 'men' ceased to exist once they fell to power of the Rings," he growled as if uttering a curse. "They were what you might call the 'undead' -- spirits trapped in the waking world, held in lifeless thrall to the whims of Sauron -- animated only by the calling of the One Ring."

I attempted to reply, but now my host was livid. Grasping my shoulders as if to quell my thirst for knowledge, Pallando spat, "No, I tell you! Such powers were lost to them ere their fall! Lost before the errant moon first staggered its drunken course or the sun mounted resplendent in the sky!"

"But..how…how could you know such things?" I stammered timidly. Having fallen prey to the storm raging in my host's eyes, I suddenly feared to hear the answer. "There are naught now any that live under the sun who could attest to such knowledge. Errr…are there?"


	29. Chapter 29

**CHAPTER XXIX: **_**The Sundering of the Istari**_

Pallando snarled between his teeth and grimaced. "Your persistence is irritating," he said, and I was rather taken aback with the notion that anyone should be annoyed with me. "Very well," he sighed in resignation, "since you have managed to pry secrets from even the Lord of the Moriquendi, who am I – a wayward pilgrim strayed from his journey -- to withhold that which no longer matters?" He made a futile gesture, a wave of abnegation. "There is no cost to me in any case, as such secrets lost their potency and privilege in another age. For who is now left to judge me?"

I replied that I knew neither who would judge him in the first place, nor what crimes he committed to require judgment in the second. He rolled his eyes and said, "I was merely speaking in general terms. Now, do not interrupt me further."

I sulked at the rebuke, but obeyed.

Pallando went on to recount the many great hunts in the East in the eldest of days as one of the vassals of Oromë, Lord of Forests, where their prey were fell creatures no longer of this world (save those that now perhaps slink and slither about in the darkest recesses and deepest pits, gnawing the very roots of the mountains – unknown and unnamed – abominations of the First Great Evil). From what I could see of his home in exile, this blustery series of caves on the verge of the world, Pallando still retained that hunting spirit, as there were pelts in profusion and his cutlery and tools were crafted of bone or horn. But on a time early in the First Age, when it was discovered that Elves and Men had taken up their abodes in Middle-earth, there was some sort of prohibition against the Valar and Maiar (those being Pallando's folk) setting foot again on the shores of this world. I do not know the reasons for this, nor did Pallando, annoyingly reticent even when telling his tale, expound on the origins of this self-invoked ban; yet he did intimate that many of his kin were dismayed at being forbidden from visiting their old haunts in Arda (or Ardan as the Dark Elves called it).

With naught now left to do, and fenced in by the constraints of Valinor, Pallando went into the service of Nienna, another of the Valar, and kinswoman of Mandos, Master of Fate and Keeper of the Halls of the Dead. In her house he learned the virtues of solitude (which explained to me the forsaken home he now kept), for Nienna lived alone and her windows look outward from the very walls at the brink of the world, from which vaults the fathomless canopy of the sky. Great was her wisdom, but never did Pallando stay long in Nienna's house, for he was restless; and although he loved the solitude, he could not attain the level of patience that lay at the heart of Nienna's teaching. Therefore, when a chance came to return to Arda and walk once again in the ancient forests he so loved, he quickly grasped the chance – although in retrospect, he claimed he did so for the wrong reasons.

And so it was that the Valar had decided to send an embassy to embattled Arda, which they had long neglected. For the Dark Lord Sauron had once again risen and vied with the Powers for dominion of the earth (based on my previous studies, I assume this to be somewhat after the War of the Last Alliance). But the Valar chose not to strive with force against force as they had in an earlier age against Morgoth, a war that rent asunder the very fabric of the earth. No, this time they chose a few emissaries to spark the resistance against Sauron's domination, to enliven the hearts of Men and Elves, and to act as beacons of hope in the coming storm.

Foremost among them, and the first chosen, was Curumo, he who was later named Saruman or Curunir, a formidable disciple of Aul_ë_ the Smith, as was Sauron once. It was believed by Aul_ë_ and others that Curumo could best combat Sauron, for his knowledge of crafting was deep, and he could divine the secret ways of the Dark Lord. Next, Oromë chose Alatar, a great hunter, quick to anger, and feared for his skill in bringing to bay the dark beasts that lurked in the primeval forests 'ere the rising of the sun and moon. Next to be chosen, and by _Manwë_ the Sky Lord, was Olórin, who had many names in Arda, among them Mithrandir, Incánus and Gandalf. At first, Olórin was loathe to go on such a mission, for he felt it was beyond his strength; but duty was impressed upon him by _Manwë, and Nienna, who knew well his full measure. _Pallando, with whom he was acquainted during his time in the House of Nienna, considered Olórin to be a great soul, with a fortitude and strength hidden behind a humble mien. Yavanna, Queen of the Earth and of all living things, chose Aiwendil (or Radagast as he became known in this world), a lover of birds and beasts. Wroth was Curium at the choice of Aiwendil, and he spoke against him in council; but at the intercession of Olórin, who was Aiwendil's friend, and Yavanna, who wished her children, the olvar and kelvar, protected, the stern disciple of Aul_ë_ was overridden. Pallando was the last to be chosen ("an afterthought," he told me sadly), but he had striven long in council to be included among the emissaries, and used his influence with Oromë, and his ages-old friendship with Alatar, to turn the decision in his favor.

Thus was formed the Heren Istarion -- the Istari or wizards -- who came to Middle-earth cloaked in the habiliments of old but hale men, who aged not, or so slowly that mortals could not discern their advancing years. And the Istari traveled forth in Middle-earth and journeyed long amongst Elves and Men, learning their ways, and gathering allies for the coming conflict against Sauron. For many decades the Istari toiled together at their thankless task in the West of the World, but eventually need drove them to go their separate ways – the better to reach the greatest number of folk who might listen to their call: Gandalf journeyed to the far south, Radagast to Rhovanion, and Saruman, Alatar and Pallando to the furthest east. It was during that time that both Alatar and Pallando fell out of all reckoning in the West, but not so Saruman.

Now, Pallando was not yet aware of the mind of Saruman, for even in Valinor he was a closed book, and it was always said among his peers he kept close council; but the Blue Wizard (for each was known by the color of their robes) knew the inner workings of Alatar well enough. Great was Alatar's thirst for combat, and he had little use for words when direct action and the glory of battle beckoned; in fact, he began referring to himself with a new name now that he was in the East: Morinehtar, that is, Dark Slayer. It was during that time Pallando began to take notice of Saruman's subtle manipulation of Morinehtar, who fed his overweening pride as a master-of-hounds might feed scraps of meat to a hungry dog. Even Pallando found himself swayed, and often against his will, by the mellifluous overtures of Saruman. At times words would drip from Saruman's tongue like honey, reasonable and with a logic only a fool would debate. At other times, when reason did not suffice, and a fool indeed questioned his logic, Saruman's authority was towering; but even so it was without seeming malice, rather, as a father might chastise a wayward son, or a king upbraid an errant vassal. And as Alatar (or Morinehtar, rather) deferred more and more to the judgment of Saruman, he became increasingly condescending to Pallando, derisively referring to him as Rómestámo, which means "East-Helper", as if Pallando was naught but a mere servant to the greater powers that were Morinehtar and Saruman (or Saruman alone, although Morinehtar knew it not).

Yet there was little Pallando could do, save to remind his comrades of their mission, limiting their aims when they seemingly strayed from the path of reason. And to Pallando's mind, Saruman and Morinehtar's efforts eschewed the mandate given to them by the Valar, and became more a method of self-aggrandizement. By now, they had passed the great bastions of the East, the Orocarni Mountains, and were in the lands of the Far East proper, where no Elf or Man of the West had set foot for ages, and none but the Dark Elves or Dwarves of the Blacklock clan could recount any dealings with the West. Pallando thought it natural to make accords with the Dark Elves and Blacklocks, seeing in them the strength of their sundered cousins in the West, and upon this firm foundation build further alliances eastward; however, Saruman (and as ever Morinehtar was of like mind) strove to bring to heel the restless nomads, the ignorant horsemen of the plains, playing on their fears and superstitions with grand deceptions and wise-seeming words.

Instead of alliances, Saruman and Morinehtar would have these mean folk build altars, rather than teaching statecraft, they required sacrifice, and in place of friendship, Saruman and his martinet marionette Morinehtar through fear fashioned foes against which they could target the restless and violent energies of their vassal tribes. But Pallando became less and less inclined to be daunted by Saruman's suave domineering as the gulf between what Pallando perceived to be the Istari's mission and the competing agenda of other two wizards became more pronounced; but Pallando, ever on guard as he was against Saruman's machinations, had not counted on the abominable perfidy of Saruman, who had previously hidden with fair dissembling his true intentions. The break came at last on the sere verge of the Roaring Waste.

After a particularly heated argument between Pallando and Saruman, there came a cold pause, a passage of several days in which not a word passed between the two. Shunned, Pallando found himself riding ever farther and farther behind Saruman and Mohrinehtar, who spoke to each other in low, conspiratorial whispers, their voices masked by the incessant hiss of desert wind driven across aimless sand. Then came a night of storm, and a virulent and seething blast of flaying sand engulfed the three Istari. But Saruman rose from the leeside of a great dune against which they were sheltering, and it seemed to Pallando that Saruman was unaffected by the buffeting wind, which roared around and over him but touched him not; in fact, to Pallando's eyes Saruman towered above the storm, encapsulated in a fiery glow. At his right hand stood Morinehtar leaning heavily against his staff, his wincing face pale and haggard, as if the spectral light emanating from Saruman offered little protection for his fawning acolyte.

"Pallando, I will have your staff!" Saruman's fell voice loomed large above the howl of the wind, or perhaps his command was driven by the storm itself, which smote Pallando like a bolt.

"So, it has come to this!" Pallando gasped, his words barely audible through the shrieking savagery of the blistering torrent.

"Yes, it has come, fool!" Saruman mocked. "I have no longer the patience for your pitiful and contrary notions -- your goodly-seeming but misplaced piety. Can you not see that the rabble you strive to unite are mere chattel -- pawns in a lofty game played by greater minds? They shall not be proof against the coming storm!"

"You must be blind, Saruman, for the storm is upon us," Pallando bit back; "although I see clearly you have chosen to ride its coat-tails."

Pallando felt a tug on his staff as if by unseen hands, and he grasped it fervently, his only anchor in a sea of swarming sand. Then Saruman laughed, a cold and calculating cackle as devoid of humor as the desert was dry. The laughter did not die away, it still echoed tauntingly in Pallando's mind as Saruman struck again, his voice grown haughty and cruel. "Mighty Pallando, last of the Istari," Saruman jeered, "do not speak of coat-tails, for it was you who rode here bound by the will of greater spirits. Unworthy Pallando, least of the Istari, begging his way to Middle-earth on the whim of a friend."

Saruman's envenomed words were a vicious slap to Pallando. He could not reply. He was wavering. It was true, he knew himself to be the least of his comrades, and he had pleaded for a chance to leave the confines of Valinor. He had begged favors from Oromë and Alatar like a selfish child, and now it was clear the other Istari perceived his weakness, his pettiness, his false pride. Pallando's faltering glance shrunk from the cold glare of Saruman, and he gazed beseechingly to Morinehtar, who looked at Pallando, his old friend, with a pity bordering on disgust. Pallando could see in Morinehtar's eyes that he had fallen completely under Saruman's spell, and no words, no plea for aid would avail him in this sore trial.

"I may fall," Pallando managed to croak, "but there is one among us whom your perilous voice will not sway." He coughed hoarsely as if the sand was strangling him and he sputtered, "Gandalf…Gandalf shall stop you!"

With a wave of Saruman's hand, Pallando fell as if stricken, still clinging desperately to his staff. "The Grey Pilgrim…stop me?" Saruman seethed at the insult. "Gandalf is an even bigger fool than thee, Pallando, bending and scraping to the Elves and the petty princelings of Men. He will pay dutiful homage to Saruman the White when the time comes. He will listen to reason! In our battle with Sauron for the overlordship of Middle-earth, Gandalf will see the wisdom of joining with us" -- and here he emphasized the word 'us' to indicate the muddled Morinehtar was wise as well – "Gandalf will despair of these weak mortals and dispirited Elves and come to the same conclusion: that I…that we…must rule once we have Sauron's Ring!"

Pallando knew he was overmatched. He could no more face Saruman alone than have the combined power of both his former comrades arrayed against him; yet neither could he surrender his staff to Saruman and thus be at his mercy. Trying desperately to buy time, and certain that Saruman was as enamored of his own voice as those who fell under its spell, Pallando wheezed with as much force as he could muster, "Saruman, do you really believe Sauron will surrender up his Ring to you?"

"Fool!" Saruman spat, "Sauron cannot surrender that which he does not have. He has lost it – lost it I say! This I know: it was cleaved from Sauron's clutching fingers at the foot of Mount Doom by Isildur, Elendil's son. Isildur, in his vanity, took the One Ring for his own; however, he was a lesser scion of nobler sires, and was unworthy, being a mere mortal of a waning race, and unaccustomed to wielding True Power. Thus, he lost the Ring in turn, and lost it remains, waiting for us to claim it. And if it remains lost, so much the better, for we still have time to divine the nature of this One Ring and devise our own. We may even have to play the role of abettors and accomplices to Sauron in order to keep him off the scent -- so be it; whatever it takes!"

"You play a dangerous game, Saruman," Pallando winced through gritted teeth, "but why play at being Melkor among these simple eastern savages when the Ring beckons in the West; for surely that is where it lies hid."

"Why? I had my hopes set on both you and Morinehtar holding sway in the East, whilst I returned to the West to claim our prize. But you have chosen the path of folly, and only Morinehtar has remained true to our vision, to our new order!" Then Saruman, thinking better of it, stopped and stared malevolently at Pallando with a hooded eye. "Do not bandy whimpering words with me, Pallando, our judgment is upon you!" he bellowed. "I shall have thy staff, and send thy houseless spirit unshriven to the Halls of Mandos!"

But Pallando had been given precious time – a respite in which to counteract the distracted Saruman. Rather than contest the will of the White Wizard or match his might with might, Pallando instead summoned up his flagging strength and caused the great sand dune that stood behind them to come roaring down upon their heads. There was a muffled cry of outrage from Saruman, and his coruscating aura was quickly extinguished under a massive crush of sand. Then there was a rumbling silence such as one experiences when suddenly submerged in dark waters, for Pallando had not escaped the fate heaped upon his treacherous foes. His chest constricted as great gouts of sand pummeled him where he knelt. But by blind luck (for Pallando no longer put faith in Providence), the immense wave of sand cast him backwards, and like a pebble tossed by a rip tide he was dragged several feet from the main cataclysm.

Through a supreme effort of will, Pallando managed to retain consciousness under the black blanket that enveloped him. Blindly groping in this suffocating barrow mound, he located his staff and staggered upward, inch by haggard inch, through the sucking sand. When at last he struggled to the surface, he found the desert storm had abated somewhat, although the sirocco wind still whipped sand in his mouth as he gasped for air. Sputtering and spitting, he dragged himself along, planting the butt-end of his staff at intervals in the sand as a lever for his battered body to shimmy behind. Although he was dead tired, Pallando crawled to his steed (who had the horse sense to avoid the inundation altogether), and barely managed to mount the beast before exhaustion took him utterly. The horse needed no encouragement to beat a hasty retreat, and galloped off with Pallando barely keeping a grip on its mane. The last sight Pallando could recall as he crested the nearby dunes was that of a brilliant burst of light from the spot where the other two wizards lay buried. He had not destroyed Saruman (although he had briefly entertained that slight hope), nor had he the strength to face him again. His faith shaken, his worth found wonting, and his mission in utter ruin, Pallando surrendered to fitful sleep and dark dreams. His horse, more intent on survival than harboring any philosophical inclinations, maintained its forward momentum and the precarious balance of its melancholy master, and soon they were far away from their enemies, the storm swallowing any sign of their escape.


	30. Chapter 30

**CHAPTER XXX: **_**The Coming of the Corsair**_

"How did he topple the sand dune?"

"Who? Did what?"

"Pallando. How did he topple the sand dune?"

Greagoir grimaced. "He used magic, of course; he is a wizard, after all."

"Yes, I realize that," Tatya sighed, "but the passage is not at all descriptive."

Greagoir's face turned a choleric shade of purple. "Not…at all…descriptive?" he blurted in short gasps, the first blustering rumbles of a restive volcano prior to its violent eruption.

"Well, no, what I mean is…" Tatya backtracked with only minimal hesitation, "…given Pallando's noted reticence, he did not offer you the full scope of language necessary to color the passage in the usual manner of your splendid narrative."

Greagoir laughed in spite of himself. "You are becoming quite the diplomat, Tatya, and I am pleased that you are at least following the tale with some interest. I am always fearful that you find these dictations a bit dull."

"Dull? Why no, master, never dull."

If Greagoir could see Tatya's smirk, he would have wiped it off his apprentice's face with a none-too-tender backhand; however, the master took his pupil's remark at face value, or perhaps he merely accepted Tatya's sarcasm in stride. "But as I was saying, Pallando retreated to the far north and became a reclusive hermit, unwilling or unable to recommit himself to his original objective for quite a long while."

"Why did he not go west and warn Gandalf of Saruman's treachery?" Tatya asked in dismay. "Surely, much confusion and bloodshed could have been averted had Pallando shown a little fortitude."

Greagoir shrugged. "Who can explain the inner-workings of immortals?" he said noncommittally. "What seems reasonable and necessary to us may not apply to them, or perhaps such bitterness and disappointment is heightened in them to such a degree that they cannot regain a semblance of their former selves. I do not know."

Tatya considered that answer wholly unsatisfactory, but doubted if Greagoir would explain further (or at least not without an interminably lengthy digression). "And what of Alatar, or Morinehtar as he called himself?" Tatya continued from a different angle, becoming more and more disgusted with immortals in general and wizards specifically. "I know that you told me previously that Saruman returned to the West and was involved in the War of the Ring, but what became of his vain accomplice?"

"Alatar? From what I could ascertain, Saruman had little faith in his protégé, and abandoned him soon after their betrayal of Pallando, but not before Saruman had instilled an unquenchable thirst for power in Alatar so that he would remain forever in the East to build his tawdry castles made of sand. I learned later that, without Saruman's cunning and guidance, Alatar ran afoul of the Dark Elves and then the khans of the Gold Coast, who, jealous of their prerogatives and domains, crushed Alatar's weakly held alliances and drove him ever southward. Only rumor remains of him now, but it is said that in his insatiable but thwarted hunger for realms to conquer he sailed to the furthest south, to the dark continent of Mu. I have never managed more than a cursory expedition of Mu, journeying no further than the sweltering torrid zone that stretches across that land mass in a great swathe, but it is whispered fearfully among the tribes I encountered that in the remotest jungles and desolate plateaus that straddle the uncharted antipodal seas, he is still revered as a God of War -- a bloodthirsty and immortal Lord of the Underworld -- who sits upon a throne of the tanned leathery skin of his victims, and the very walls of his grim palace are the bones and skulls amassed through countless generations of slaughter."

Tatya shivered and quickly changed the subject. "But how did you come by the wizard's staff? It seems odd that he would surrender it to you after it was so dearly bought from the clutches of Saruman."

"Yes, that is odd, isn't it?" Greagoir answered. "I can only say that in telling his tale to me, Pallando's attitude changed, or perhaps as I related the news of the terrible onset of Urzahil's legions, the wizard was in some way moved to action. When I was well enough to travel again, he guided my horse and I back past the Towers of the Teeth (as he named the splintered mountain range that marked the boundary of his home in exile), and handed his staff to me as I was ready to take my leave.

"He waved off my protestations and stated simply, 'There is little or no magic left in the staff. To me it is but faded symbol of an Order long sundered, and I have no need for such a prop.' He shook his head sadly and gazed thoughtfully at the staff. Then his spirits rose again and he added, 'But take heart, it was lovingly turned by a master woodwright in a bygone age, shaped of precious lebethron from the Far West of the world and shod cunningly with true-silver. It shall be a support and comfort to you in the years ahead. For I see clearly that you have many miles left to tread, far and wide along many a path and strange, seeking that which was lost. Perhaps there shall come a day when one such journey leads this staff back to its home range along Ered Nimrais, the White Mountains of Gondor, and thus the tale comes full circle at last.'

"Pallando grasped my shoulder warmly and winked, then he turned briskly and began walking westward at a rapid clip that belied his great girth and unfathomable age. 'But where are you going?' I called after him.

"He turned back and cocked a dark eyebrow. 'Haven't you heard?" he said with an enigmatic smile. "There is a Dark Lord to be dealt with!'

"It was the last I ever saw of him."

Greagoir steadied himself in grumpish foresight, as he was certain that Tatya was ready to pester him with more impertinent questions, but unfortunately (and it was unfortunate, as Greagoir was quite ready to expound further) there came the sound of a team of horses and a coach rumbling up to the cottage. Tatya jumped nearly out of his skin at the sudden racket, so engrossed was he in the tale, but he did not move from his master's bedside. Greagoir, already irritated at suffering prematurely from expectant exasperation (compounded with the present insufferable interruption), barked at Tatya, "Don't just sit there like a bump on a log, dolt, go see who it is!"

Tatya crept to the door, unused as he was to visitors, and naturally wary in any case. Peering outside, he saw a great coach, more like a small house built neatly atop a wagon, with six pawing and preening horses lined neatly in pairs pulling it up the slope towards the cottage. By the sumptuous nature of the coach and the grand emblem of the Syndic Council embossed on the doors, Tatya knew it could be only one person.

As the coach stopped abruptly before the porch, the air was filled with salty curses as the lone passenger upbraided and abused the driver for his carelessness, his lack of ability, and for generally behaving in a criminal manner fit to be flogged. One footman placed a set of wooden steps below the carriage door, another opened the door, and a third offered his arm to steady the passenger, but the passenger refused the assistance with a growl and a flick of his silver-knobbed cane. This was Attar Kiryatin, the former corsair and now Privy Lord of the Syndic Council (having outlasted the rest of his peers), come on his annual progress through his vast estates as he had done without fail for years uncounted, or at least within the reckoning of Tatya. According to Greagoir, Attar's 'progresses' were made to assure that every single blade of grass was accounted for and at an acceptable height, and each single grain of sand remained in its proper place (weather and erosion were, of course, not acceptable excuses for any change whatsoever).

Attar's face had an old sour look like milk set out too long, but his bright eyes, immersed as they were in sallow flaps of pock-marked and scarred skin, still glinted with an inward evil (as Tatya was certain he possessed); yet for all his years (and he was older than Greagoir by at least a decade), he carried himself near-erect and walked with a spry step that belied his advanced age. Tatya remembered his master saying that Attar was so stingy that he refused to die, because he was too cheap to pay for his own funeral. To Tatya's eyes, it seemed that Attar was as hale as he was avaricious. His cane clicked steadily on the cobblestone path as if the man were ticking off time in a march, and his footmen huffed and puffed in his wake like squawking gulls parting for the briny prow of an ancient but still formidable ship.

Attar stopped momentarily where Tatya stood deferentially in the doorway (he had at least the sense to swallow his indignation and bow humbly), and the syndic lord looked him up and down as if he were appraising a heifer. "You are thin and pale, scribeling," Attar grumbled as he passed judgment on the apprentice, "your master should feed you better."

Tatya considered replying that there was no nutritional value in thin air, but thought better of it. Attar barged past Tatya and strode forcefully to Greagoir's bed as if he intended to strike Greagoir for his laziness. "Still lying about I see," Attar growled at the blind bard without a hint of compassion. "I had heard you were ill."

"Nay, my lord," Greagoir growled back, "I am dying; hence my inability to offer a proper welcome."

Attar sniffed as if the explanation was hardly adequate for the situation. "Well, I suppose you consider dying an excuse for loitering about, eh? but I am sure if there were some tale to be had of the Dark Elves a' way up north, you'd be trudging off, pack in hand, by this evening."

"Not this time, my lord," Greagoir said rather forlornly, but he quickly regained some impertinent vigor and said, "For I am indeed dying, or is there something in those words you fail to understand? I am at death's door, I am failing in spirit, I am giving up the ghost, buying the farm, soon to push up daisies. Dead, dead, D-E-A-D!"

Rather than upbraiding his insubordinate servant, Attar merely chuckled. "T'would seem your spirit has not deserted you as of yet, scribe. You're still 'live and kicking! So let us stop all this dying nonsense for the present, shall we?" He then brusquely barked out an order to Tatya: "Scribeling, get me ale, or whatever it is that passes for drink in this house."

Tatya shook himself from the teary daze that held him motionless for the last few moments and scuttled off to the kitchen. Greagoir said he was dying! And though Tatya had stubbornly refused to consider such a thought for the past several months, the proof was there for any fool to see. In the back of Tatya's mind he had somehow got Greagoir mixed up with the Elves and wizards and other assorted immortals that populated so many of his tales that he considered his master to be indestructible as well. As he returned to the bedroom and brought Lord Attar his drink, the scribe and corsair were still engaged in the stinging banter that was the hallmark of their explosive meetings.

"We are agreed then?" Tatya heard Greagoir saying about some deal that the apprentice had not caught. "It is the very least you could do."

"Damn yer blasted hide, brazen bard!" Attar shot back indignantly. "I shall not be dictated to by anyone, least of all such a one as yerself, who forgets his station!"

Greagoir refused to be goaded into a shouting match; rather, he replied softly but succinctly, "Speak not of stations, my lord, for it was I who put you on your lofty perch."

"Perch? Perch!" Attar was near hysterical and his hand was quivering on his cane. He threw his mug to the floor and bellowed, "Garn! I have killed men for far less! I'll cut that waggin' tongue out of yer mouth and nail it to yer bleedin' forehead! Then I'll stick yer bloody head on a pole, and I'll take that pole to the quayside and dip yer damned head into the sea and let the fishes take fleshy bits out 'o' yer hide!"

Tatya noticed Lord Kiryatin's speech became more and more guttural the angrier he got, and well he knew that under that lordly exterior lay the black heart of a thieving pirate. But he didn't bother to enter the fray, nor protect his prone master. After all, Greagoir would have been throttled years ago if Lord Kiryatin had ever made good on his threats.

"Do your worst!" Greagoir hissed and tried to rise from his pillow, but he began hacking convulsively. "My service to you has ended," he gasped, "a long-suffering servant of an ungrateful master!"

Attar's fist was clenched white on his cane. "Boy, get me a chair!" he spat at Tatya, and the apprentice dutifully complied.

The Sea Lord sat deathly still for a long time, glaring at nothing as blindly as his unseeing servant. When he at last spoke, his words were halting and restrained, but his lips were stretched tightly against his yellow teeth, "Very well…ye bold scut…I'll do as ye ask…if it makes yer passing the easier."

Greagoir, who was as equally tense in his bed, unclenched his stranglehold on his coverlet and lapsed back against his pillow. "I thank you, my lord, and beg your forgiveness for the thousand flights of fancy I took while engaged in your diplomatic service. I did try to the best of my ability…"

Lord Kiryatin had become less stiff in his chair as well, and interrupted Greagoir's contrite declamation, "Bah! 'Tis a bit late to be askin' me pardon for fifty years of loiterin' and scofflawry. I ne'er expected an apology and will not accept one now! It don't ring true, in any case."

Greagoir smiled weakly and nodded before passing into sleep.

Lord Kiryatin coughed uncomfortably and rubbed his eye in sudden irritation. Rising unsteadily from his chair, he directed a half-hearted scowl towards Tatya and said, "Look to yer master. I'll be about the grounds a bit before I take my leave." Without another word, Attar Kiryatin regained his gruffly regal demeanor and strode out of the cottage as purposefully as he had entered.


	31. Chapter 31

**CHAPTER XXXI: **_**Bookends**_

"Is he gone?"

Tatya turned from the door to see Greagoir looking in his direction with one eye open.

"He…Lord Kiryatin is taking a walk about the grounds, master," Tatya replied with some surprise.

"I always could play him like a fiddle," Greagoir said with a wry grin.

"Play him? Lord Kiryatin? I don't get your meaning, master," Tatya mumbled, fumbling for an answer.

"At my passing you shall become Kiryatin's chief scribe, Tatya. You shall replace me."

"But…but…I am only an apprentice!"

Greagoir laughed hoarsely and lapsed into a spasm of coughing. "You are an apprentice no longer," Greagoir wheezed, "you have nuzzled at the teat of knowledge overlong, man-cub, it is time for you to leave the den."

Tatya was not at all pleased with the analogy, but he caught his master's meaning well enough. "But I am not ready," Tatya implored, "I have a lot yet to learn, and so many questions to ask!"

"Yes, there will be no more confounded questions," Greagoir sighed with obvious relief. "Tatya, one learns better by doing rather than asking. You are not some mindless myna parroting rote rhymes. I have given you my chronicles, add then to my history -- or better, create your own. There is so much left undiscovered…so much left undone…so much…"

Greagoir closed his eyes, still furtively rolling the great black pearl in his hand. Tatya tenderly brushed the hair back from his master's snow-white brow. "There is still time for us to finish your work, master," Tatya said with a sad smile. "You must rest now."

"I shall find no rest here," Greagoir murmured as one dreaming, "I must go on a final journey to find one who has my heart in her keeping..." He then opened his eyes, looked out beyond the feeble constraints of his blind orbs, and whispered "Leannan." His mouth slackened and the black pearl rolled from his grasp.

Tatya called out to his master, but he knew Greagoir was well on his way, and from this journey there would be no returning. Tatya gently closed his master's eyes and pulled the coverlet over his head. He then took up the pearl and held it to the light, its eboned opalescence stormily reflecting the sputtering candle on the bedstead. Then a thought suddenly came to him, and he went outside. The gloaming of evening was slowly casting its magical half-light on the whispering meadows as the last vestige of the setting sun tinged the uppermost rims of the hills reddish-orange in the west. Tatya found Attar Kiryatin at the end of the lane, making his way slowly back to his coach.

Tatya bowed solemnly to the Syndic Lord and said curtly, "Greagoir is dead, my lord. His last words spoke of his fealty towards you, and what a great honor it was to serve you."

Lord Kiryatin was at first distracted upon hearing the news, but then he eyed Tatya quizzically and a shrewd half-grin passed across his lips. "He said all that, did he? Well, either he was hallucinating at the end, or else you are a great liar."

Tatya shrugged noncommittally.

"In any case, young…Tatya, is it?" Lord Kiryatin continued, "I made your master a promise. After we bury Greagoir, you shall accompany me back to Caladh. There you shall be my chief scribe and take up his role in my service."

"Begging your pardon, my lord," Tatya said lowering his eyes, unable to maintain his thoughts under Kiryatin's raptorial gaze, "but I would much prefer to go it on my own, if you don't mind." He gathered up his courage and looked up again at Kiryatin. "And I would like to purchase this cottage and the land about it. In addition, I would appreciate some gold to defray the cost of my first expedition."

Kiryatin laughed aloud. "Naught but that, eh? Let me see if I have this a' right: first, you decline the position I have offered you --one which brought me much vexation at the hands of your former master, mind you; next, you expect me to give you title to this land; and finally, simply hand you some gold for a journey? You have more insolence than ever your master did, and at a much younger age!"

"I do not expect you to simply hand me anything, my lord," Tatya replied rather sharply, "for I wish to purchase the land and the gold with this." So saying, he brought out the great black pearl and placed it in Lord Kiryatin's hand.

Kiryatin was speechless for quite awhile. He hefted it in his palm, held it up in the waning light of dusk, and rolled it about in his fingers. His mouth moved silently in time with the calculations he was doing in his head. At last he spoke, but it was the squeak of an old man through parched lips, "Have you any idea the worth of this little bauble?"

Tatya smiled. "That little bauble, my lord, is worth far more than what I expect you'll give me for it."

Kiryatin laughed again, but it was tempered with wariness. "Tatya, why is it I get the distinct impression that you dislike me?"

"I have not said so, my lord."

"Hmmm, you are very unlike your master…" Kiryatin said with slight hesitation, "and yet, and yet…" He then handed the pearl back to Tatya and said, "I shall have a proper deed drawn up for the land and the dwelling thereon, and ready a sum of gold for use at your disposal. The price shall be…fair."

"Fair for a corsair?" Tatya replied dubiously.

Kiryatin's mouth drew up into an evil little smirk. "What passes as fair for a corsair often proves more so than that of a respectable man of business." Considering the discussion closed, Kiryatin began to walk the lane towards his coach, stopped, turned and added, "But at other times one can scarce tell the two apart."

Lord Kiryatin's grumbling footmen aided Tatya in burying his master in the garden Greagoir had so adored, even in his blindness. There was very little funerary ceremony -- death being such a common occurrence in that part of the world during that time, it was better not to dwell on it. Still, Tatya mourned and ruminated over Greagoir's grave for several hours after Lord Kiryatin's coach trundled off down the lane, the Syndic Lord filling the night air with many a mouth-filling oath regarding the inadequacies of his bungling driver. Within a few days, Kiryatin returned with the deed and the gold as promised (and it was indeed fairer than Tatya expected).

"And so what shall you do now, Tatya?" Kiryatin asked. "You are a young man of means and property; perhaps being a gentleman farmer would suit you best."

"Nay, my lord, I shall not farm the soil, but Middle-earth itself," Tatya answered cryptically, shouldering a pack he had already prepared. As he was seeing the Syndic Lord out, Tatya stopped at the doorway and hefted the black staff of Pallando, which had been leaning casually against the wall. "You see this, my lord? It was crafted from wood that came from Ered Nimrais, the White Mountains of fabled Gondor. I have an errand to run out that way."

Kiryatin could do nothing but stand on the porch and shake his head as Tatya marched down the lane with staff in hand. "So very unlike his master?" Kiryatin grunted and rolled his eyes. "Bah, he's the spitting image!"

But Tatya Reecho could not hear Lord Kiryatin's remark, having quickly passed out of sight of the ramshackle cotter's cottage that had been his home for so many years. As he crested the last hill, he caught a faint glimpse of the distant shores of Marannan Astair and the dark sea beyond. Heaving a great sigh, he said, "And thus the tale comes full circle at last!"

THE END


	32. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

As new life shall come from death, a new story is formed, molded from the rich loam of the old, and a new path parts from the straight road like a budding branch from a hoary, old tree, still clinging to the trunk for sustenance, perhaps, but seeking its own place in the sun nonetheless. Tatya did indeed reach the fabled land of Gondor, and its once glorious capitol, Minas Tirith, with its great gates shod of mithril and steel, now thrown into tumult as war encompassed all the lands from Hildor to Harad.

There is an old curse that goes 'may you live in interesting times'; but to a young scholar like Tatya Reecho, such a curse was a curious boon and a baleful blessing dangling like a knife's edge. To chronicle the great events of one's time, to breath the rarified air in which the lofty heroes of the era lived and loved and warred. Ah! 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished for an aspiring scribe. Peace has its attributes, surely, and dying comfortably in one's own bed is a far sight better than bleeding to death on the battlefield; but the mystique of war and the tales it engenders burns with a sanguine yearning in the heart of a poet and the head of a historian. One such martial minstrel once wrote:

_"My heart is filled with gladness when I see__  
__Strong castles besieged, stockades broken and overwhelmed,__  
__Many vassals struck down,__  
__Horses of the dead and wounded roving at random.__  
__And when battle is joined, let all men of good lineage__  
__Think of naught but the breaking of heads and arms,__  
__For it is better to die than be vanquished and live. . . .__  
__I tell you I have no such joy as when I hear the shout__  
__'On! On!' from both sides and the neighing of riderless steeds,__  
__And groans of 'Help me! Help me!'__  
__And when I see both great and small__  
__Fall in the ditches and on the grass__  
__And see the dead transfixed by spear shafts!__  
__Lords, mortgage your domains, castles, cities,__  
__But never give up war!"_

This, of course, was not the style of the sensible Tatya, who would have despised the poet as much as he did the corsair Attar Kiryatin; nevertheless, the apprentice had been nurtured on the lusty and bloody tales of his master, and although he was a cautious soul, adventure was ever the lure that drove him beyond his wary constraints, emboldened his spirit and caused the pen to burn along the parchment with the fire of inspiration. And so it was with Tatya, who chronicled the Great War of the Fourth Age, and the most daring of quests, in which a disparate band of warriors and poets, weavers and wanderers, sought to solve the riddle of the enigmatic Mouth of Sauron, and to seek the destruction of this seemingly deathless Dark Lord, who was said to be mortal, yet waged war on Middle-earth with the ageless savagery of an immortal.

But that, as they say, is another story.


End file.
